


Apoptosis

by Friolero



Series: Morpholgy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Omega, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Homophobic Language, I hope I have all the correct Tags., M/M, Male Slash, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Murder Mystery, My First Fanfic, Omega John, Omega Verse, Other, Requited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Spoilers for all seasons, Triggers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 98,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1662779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friolero/pseuds/Friolero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>«The majority of the pedantic literature on the subject agrees that the A/O dynamic is an evolutionary appendage, soon to be nothing more than a genetic anomaly and curiosity of the medical profession. This is a small comfort to the 5% of the population who, without modern medication, would still be beholden to the overpowering biological urges of a bygone era of human evolution.» (Fenway, G. MD An introduction to the A/O Dynamic in Modern Medicine, Oxford University Press: 2003).</p><p>It starts with a case and an unlikely witness that brings John’s long-kept-secret to the surface. As John struggles to hide his emotions and biology from his Alpha flatmate, things go from bad to worse when he finds himself the main suspect of a murder investigation.</p><p> </p><p>Please note warnings for each individual chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1.

"Jacob showed early signs of a dominate personality and was often described by his adolescent peers as "aggressive" and "possessive". This, coupled with the Alphas enhanced strength, is the reason why many societies view them with fear. Uncharacteristically of the Alpha, Jacob never showed any interest in physical pursuits, such as sports or martial arts. In fact, he always asserted that he never needed to exert any physical dominance. Jacob took great pride in his intellectual prowess. "When I want something, I will always get it. Always." He was never shy about boosting about his many, as he´d later call it, "Machiavellian accomplishments." This behavior is atypical of the dominate, aggressive Alpha, prone to physical confrontation." (Fenway, G. M.D Case-study of an Alpha. A/O/B Press: 2000. 4th edition).

 

Chapter 1.

His father is hiding behind the latest issue of the Journal and Press while his mother carefully stirs one spoon of sugar into her tea, two fingers pressed against her temple and heavy bags under her dark eyes. It´s the telltale signs of a another sleepless night and she knows it will be by followed another a day of headaches and vertigo. She wonders for a moment if there is something wrong with her prescription and how she can go about seeing the doctor without her husband or children finding out. 

John Watson is busy carefully spooning milk over his Weetabix while Harriet licks strawberry jam off her knife and the back of her hand. She makes small snuffling noises around her toast as she mumbles scratches away on a belated homework.

While John waits for his cereal to properly soak, he fishes up his math-homework and a pencil. It is mostly done, but he makes sure to shield his paper from the dangers of Harriet´s volatile eating habits, while he painstakingly double-checks that he has written the correct sums. Ms. Crawford had hinted that there might be a test today, and John always wants to do well on his tests, because it will make his father proud. Unlike the majority of his classmates, John quite likes math, he likes the order and logic of it and how it always pleases his mum when he brings home stickers and stamps on his homework.

"It´s utter madness it is" his father comments, shaking the newspaper. John has long learned to recognize this as a sign of an adult conversation that is likely to be utterly boring and is already pondering question 5a. This set of divisions does´t look quite right.

"What, dear?" his mother replies absently, her brow creases in grimace as she takes her first sip of her tea. Had she mistaken the sugar for salt? She checks the writing on the plastic bowl, but "sugar" is written in big, scratchy, letters.

"This whole Alpha-Omega business" his father replies darkly, "there´s this newspaper article about an Alpha attacking a young man and scarring him for life."

"I heard he took an actual bite out of the man´s neck", his mother frowns and sips her tea, "and all that poor man did was looking at his fiancé."

"Experts says he can´t help it, that it´s in his nature to protect his Mate," he quotes from the newspaper. " These Alpha and Omegas, if they cannot behave like normal people they should not be permitted to walk the streets."

John mashes his Weetabix into an indistinguishable, mush. He´ll not outgrow this way of eating his breakfast until secondary school. Harriet glances at him and wrinkles her nose in disgust and John hastily shuffles his breakfast into his mouth and gapes wide to show Harriet the brown lump of food. Harriet scoffs and kicks his leg under the table. John is about to defend himself against the violent display of sibling rivalry, when Harriet suddenly asks.

"What´s an Alpha, dad?"  
"It´s somebody who thinks he´s better than the rest of us it is, thinks he´s got the right to attack people just for looking at his Mate. They are violent, unstable, uncivilized, people and they should be locked up the lot of them."

John is only half-listening to their conversation, caught up trying to remember the correct way to calculate the length of a triangle, but the scorn in his dad´s voice makes him abandoned his sums.

"What is an Omega?" John asks.  
"You´ll probably never meet one, son, they are very rare. They are weak-willed, helpless people who lives to serve the Alpha. What it really wants is to bend over backwards to-" he takes a sip of his tea and grits out "basically, it´s a bi-"

"George!" his mother shrieks and quickly covering her hands over son´s ears. "Watch the language at the breakfast table, George!"

George rolls his eyes and folds the newspaper away. He regards his two children, fourteen- year-old Harriet smirking over her toast and ten-year-old John, blinking owlishly at his mother, skinny fingers wrapped around his pencil. He finds himself wishing that Harriet would take her schoolwork as seriously as John does. His daughter always seems more concerned with social pursuits, running off to spend time at her friend´s house or hanging at the shopping center. They can always tell when she is home by the sound of Madonna being blasted on her stereo and the phone being monopolized. He wonders if it is normal for a fourteen-year-old to have a busier social life than him.

John, however, is studious and cautious. His clothes are always well kept and clean. When other boys are getting into scuffles, climbing trees, cashing each other around and doing sports, John prefers to sit quietly on his own, his nose stuck in a book. George hopes that his Lisa will cease coddling him and perhaps allow John to grow out his introvert mien. Perhaps he should encourage him to try out for some sports before. Boys his age should´t be so quiet and sensible.

"Just-" Lisa sighs and carefully strokes an errant lock of hair behind John´s ear. "They are too young to hear about this," she places a kiss on top of his head.

"Mum" John cries and wrings away from her embrace and rearranged his hair to his satisfaction. Only two years later he will regret thinking he was too old to be cuddled by his mother. He will regret a lot of things.

"We hear far worse at school," Harriet chirps, earning a worried frown from their mother and a puzzled glance from John. He certainly never hears anything.

"The point is" George says, and draws a deep breath. Best to put the book down on this Alpha and Omega nonsense and lay it down straight. "These people, Alphas and Omegas- they are an abnormality. They aren´t…..normal. They are people controlled by their hormones and by unnatural urges. A violent, dangerous bunch the lot of them. You should stay well away from them and if you ever hear anyone telling you their parents or siblings are Alphas or Omegas, you tell me straight away. Honestly, a man giving birth?" he scoffs at the absurdity. 

"Boys can get pregnant?" Harriet boggles, as this goes against everything she´s ever learned when they had The Talk at school.  
"Only male Omegas, dear. And those are very rare."  
"That´s just really weird."  
"Be that as it may" their mother replies, "they are people too and should be treated with respect."

John´s homeroom teacher has always stressed that everybody should be treated with respect and that they all had to share this planet together. John looks between his father and mother, clearly they are at odds on the subject and John does´t really want to come between them.

George snorts as if this is the most preposterous suggestion in the history of the universe ever. "They are freaks and I´m glad there´s none in our family" he says with a certain finality in his voice that brokers no further discussion on the topic. Lisa smiles thinly and forces a nod of acknowledgement. She returns to her cup of salty tea, glad that the table hides the nervous tremor in her right foot.

The topic is never discussed again in the Watson household. 

Come winter, George Watson realizes that it was one of the last family breakfasts and he wished they had spent the time talking about something more cheerful.

Trailing behind Harriet and her current best friend,( Harriet always seemed to have them on some sort of rotating schedule known only to her) Fatima, on his way to school, John´s careful recital of his English homework is continuously interrupted by the two girls giggling into their uniform sleeves.

"It´s true, I swear," Harriet insists in a whispered hiss "my dad said so, boys can have babies."  
Fatima´s long, dark, braids shakes with barely suppressed mirth.  
“That´s just so weird!"

"I know. I wonder- I wonder where they….." Harriet lowers her voice again and brings her lips closer to Fatima´s ears. A few seconds later the two girls howl with laughter. Shoulders still shaking, they look back at John and this only spurs another fit of sniggers.

"I dare you to ask Ms. Smith about it!"  
"Oooh, I totally will!"

The two girls continue their whispered conspiracy on Alphas and Omegas until the middle of next week, when John catches Fatima kissing Harriet´s cheek. Both Harriet and John blushes, and then Harriet throws her hairbrush on John and slams her bedroom door in his face. The following days Madonna is played more loudly than ever before.

John does´t really think more about the topic, too wrapped up in worrying about his math homework and the tests they might have and how he really hopes to do well on it, perhaps earn another sticker, and maybe asking his dad if he can join the soccer team. He´s has a feeling he´d dad would be pleased if John started playing soccer.

It´s almost seven years until he really thinks about the Alphas and Omegas again, when the famous "Alpha Murderer" case is plastered all over the newspaper and televisions.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: none of the characters belongs to me

"The gruesome murder of a teenager boy in south-London has garnered a lot of attention in recent days, not only due to the violent nature of the crime, but also because this is the latest in a string of violent crimes where the primary suspect is an Alpha, or involved with one. Usually the Alpha and Omega coexists peacefully within society and garner little to no attention, but this summer London has witnessed three Alpha-related deaths. While some are claiming that the Alpha cannot be blamed for actions that are beyond its control, others ask if we should allow these individuals to remain unchecked. Perhaps they should be in a register, like former offenders."  
(Carter, L. "Letters to the Editor". Press and Journal:1999)

Chapter 2.

The autumn before John Watson turns seventeen, most of Great Britain´s attention is tuned on a string of extremely violent murders. There seems to be no apparent connection between the victims: a homeless man, a woman in her mid- sixties who worked for the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and the latest, a teenage boy found in a pool house. In fact, the only thing the three victims had in common was in the vicious, some newspapers even said savage, way they had been killed. The police are sparse with their comments and announcements on the possible suspect, and this, naturally, made speculations and rumors flourish. Soon the consensus of popular opinion is that the murderer had to be an Alpha, because nobody else had the strength to kill with such brutality. 

The Sun´s alarming headlines reads that "Nobody is Safe from the Alpha Menace," and prints a series of interviews of a young men and women who insisted that they had lived for years in terror with their "Abusive Alpha Stalker Ex-boyfriend." Such sensationalist news tended to crop up in the media every few years, but never before had the public outcry been so adamant that something had to be done about the Alphas- though none seemed to be able to agree on just what that should be.

John Watson, however, is wrapped up in preparing for college and medical school by taking extra curriculum biology and spending most of his free time reading and studying. Never any trouble with John Watson.

His football career had been abandoned when he turned twelve for the Army Cadet Force after his uncle Carl had impressed upon his dad how proper military lads could wrestle, climb mountains and shoot at targets and didn´t have their nose stuck in a book. Lydia had, sweetly, tried to inform Carl that John wasn´t like other boys, that he was kind and gentle and somehow that had made George sign him up, because apparently his son shouldn´t be kind and gentle.

John had worked his way through the ACF First Aid course to become a Four Star Cadet and now, his father always spoke of John with pride in his voice whenever they met some of his associates from work. He´s even taken John to the pub a few times to show him off to his mates. They´d clapped his back and called him an "a good egg" or a "jolly good chap," and some small part of John wondered if he should feel so satisfied to feel pleased at their praise.

He is really looking forward to following his sister´s footsteps and moving out from his childhood bedroom and to finally begin medical school. Harriet has regaled him with tales from her own student-life experience, which- according to his sister, consisted of a steady diet of parties and partners. He is not quite certain he is looking forward to that particular part of dorm life, (a small part of him worries why he isn´t looking forward to it, it does´t seem quite normal), but he is looking forward to finally be on his own.

John likes the Army Cadet Force. He liked the rigorous exercises, the discipline and the camaraderie among the cadets. At school his academic accolades had always made him stick out like a sore thumb, but in the Cadets he finally found a group like-minded individuals. It was in the ACF, learning to set a sprained ankle, that he met Andrew Cunningham, and somehow, after the unfortunate Scissor Incident, became best mates. Like John, Andrew plans to pursue a medical career, though John often gets the impression that it is a small step in his grandiose plan of becoming an ace heart surgeon, making millions of pounds and "scoring a hot, blonde, wife."

They end up spending most afternoons at Andrew´s place doing their homework or talking about ACF excursions. Andrew does have the largest TV and an endless supply of crisps, which John suspects is the reason why Andrew never manages a career in cardio.

"Have you -seen- this, John?" Andrew asks and increases the volume. John looks up from his book to glance at the screen. 

A pair of men dressed in white, plastic, suits are carrying a covered stretcher away from the public pool house. The camera swings around to capture the crowd of curious onlookers, young and old, men and women, all of them huddled together and watching the stretcher rolling out of the main doors of the pool house. Well, almost all of them. A young man is standing apart from the crowd, his hands stuffed in his pocket with an air of casual nonchalance. To John it seems as if he is more interested in watching the crowd than the crime scene. 

"I heard this guy had an arm ripped off!" Andrew exclaims with unmasked, morbid fascination. "The Alphas are suppose to be like, seriously, super strong."

"Seriously, super strong?" John asks, only half paying attention to Andrew because he´s still focused on watching the BBC camera sweep between the crowd and the police officers stationed outside the crime scene. A finely dressed news reporter is talking into the camera, her face set in a stern, serious grimace, while in the background a tall, brown-haired police officer is talking to a teenager, who cannot not be much younger than John.

"My brother said that an Alpha can crush a man´s neck with one hand. He also said that the Alphas have no conscience, they´ll rip your head off and not shed a tear." Andrew continues, obviously passionately invested in describing in vivid detail the knowledge of Alphas his brother has passed down. 

John is still fixated on watching the amusing exchange going on behind the reporter´s back. It becomes evident that the cameraman is as well, because he zooms in to capture the red-faced constable and the teenager´s exchange. The teenager is gesticulating, throwing his arms in great swoops, curly, unruly hair dancing in the wind while the police constable´s face is turning redder and redder.

"It´s odd though, isn´t it," Andrew says. "If the Alphas are so strong, why is he off killing teenagers and homeless men and an old cat-lady, why does´t he, I dunno- rob a bank or something?"

"Well, they say Alpha´s can´t control it, don´t they?" John replies as the news segmented returned to the studio and Andrew lowers the volume. 

"It´s all hormones and basic instinct, if they find their Mate- that´s it for them, there´s nobody else, no other "fish in the sea." That´s why they are so….possessive. At least that´s how Ms. Turner explained it in Social Science, were´t you paying attention?"

"Social Science?" Andrew says with a sudden far-away, dreamy look in his eyes. He leans back on his hands and grins sheepishly at John "In Social Science I was paying attention to Rose Campbell´s great, big….assets." 

John tries to suppress a snigger. Andrew´s infatuation with Rose Campbell has been something of a reoccurring theme all throughout their friendship and he has been, unsuccessfully, trying to court her for the past two years. The closest he´s come to asking her out was accidentally running over her bike when he was practicing for his driver´s license. 

Uh-huh." John grins, finally abandoning his book and sitting up. He knows from experience that there will be no more studying this afternoon, Andrew is a professional skiver (though, annoyingly, still always managed to ace his classes), and always manages to drag John with him.

"No need to play coy," Andrew chides and taps the side of his nose as if he is about to part with a great secret. "I saw you staring at Ann Marge Sandridge all through Home-economics."

"Ann might not have Rose´s…..assets" John concedes with a small smile. "But she had the most wonderful smile."

"Smile!" Andrew snorts. "You´re such an old fashioned romantic, John."  
John ducks his head to hide the faint blush creeping along the back of his neck. 

"You know, assets will be depleted with time, but a beautiful smile will never be diminished."

Andrew rolls his eyes and flips through the channels until he finds an episode of Top Gear. "The way you wax on about the color of her eyes and the way her hair glows in the sun, the way she walks across the schoolyard- and you still didn´t even ask her out."

"We didn´t really have anything in common. And there is nothing wrong with appreciating… you know, something other than the physical appearance," John lifts his hands in mock-surrender as Andrew begins to voice his protests "not that I don´t appreciate real, you know….. Beauty," he finishes meekly.

"Beauty," Andrew says. "You´re going to be a real hoot at university, I can tell."

John scrubs a hand across his brow, trying to sort out his thoughts in a way that doesn´t makes him sound like one of his grandmother´s romance novels.

"I just want somebody I can connect with, somebody I feel…..I don´t know how to explain it, somebody with whom I can share everything with, I mean, looks- they fade with time, right?" John realizes with dismay how utterly lame it sounds.

"John, you´re such a bleeding heart." Andrew rolls his eyes and turns away from the television to regard his friend. "We´re 17, not 70. You´ve got your whole life to find this….connection. You don´t have to marry every girl you date." Andrew pauses and John thinks that, for a moment, he looks almost cautious, afraid. "Or guys."

"Andrew!" John scoffs "I´m not gay."

"Relax, relax" Andrew adds hurriedly. His gaze lingers on John´s for another moment, and John quickly looks away, certain that his ears are now burning. He twists his fists into his shirt, his mind skimming through a litany of possible replies, though they all dies on his lips before he can voice them. He notices the way girls smile at him and the sweet smell of their perfume. But he likes his studies, he loves learning about medicine, and he likes the ACF. Just because he´s neat and hard-working and doesn´t chase skirts, Andrew seems to be under suspicion that he´s gay. He is a normal, sensible seventeen-year-old boy, even if that is a bit of an oxymoron.

"Well, I hope they catch who-ever this is." Andrew says and changes the topic of the conversation, much to John´s relief. 

"Some are saying that they can´t punish the Alpha, because he can´t really control himself." He hears himself say.  
"You´d put a dog down if he starts biting," Andrew says grimly.  
"They are humans" John reasons "and England does´t have the death-penalty."  
"Well, maybe it should- for some people."  
"Everyone´s equal to the law. Alphas and Omegas are people like you and me."  
"They´re not. Not really" Andrew says.

"How can you say that, Andrew- you want to be a doctor and I am pretty sure there are laws against doctors discriminating people due to their gender."  
"These aren´t…genders" Andrew replies, a sharp edge to the tone of his voice "Alphas and Omegas, they are the appendix of the human evolution. Redundant, useless, prone to cause pain, can in some cases be deadly and are best removed."

"Are you even listening to yourself?" John balls his hands into fists to keep them occupied.

"I know you´re a bleeding heart and all" Andrew moans. "And I´m sure it is going to make you a great General Practitioner. You´ll be perfect for it. Taking care of little old ladies with bad hips, wiping up vomit and sniffles and prying marbles out of children´s noses."

John simply sighs. This is an old topic and he doesn´t want to argue with Andrew, mostly because then he had to concedes that Andrew might have a point. John can never deny his care-taking nature. He likes helping others, to do well and be accomplished, why shouldn´t he do his best?

He gathers up his books and pushes himself up from the floor. He rubs a kink out of his neck and mumbles his excuse. Right now he can´t stand Andrew´s company, he knows they´ll only argue. "Well, I gotta go. Dad wants me home for tea. Lydia is cooking."

Andrew gives him a dismissive wave, fully engrossed in the television. "Are we still on for tomorrow?"  
"Yeah, yeah, sure."

It is dark outside and behind the curtains in the council estates, John sees the moving shapes of people settling down for their tea or to watch their televisions. Normal, boring, every day stuff. Andrew is a decent friend, though John can´t really agree with his conservative views on Alphas, Omegas, men and women, but he knows those are something Andrew inherited from his father. After all, George Watson has tried to inspire a similar sentiment in John and Harriet. Andrew didn´t have Lisa being the emotional counterweight to George´s most radical opinions.

This whole Alpha and Omega dynamic, John had early realized, is an intricate affair best to be ignored and avoided if at all possible. He has enough going on in his life with preparing for medical school and worrying about why he isn´t more concerned with breasts, short skirts and firm arses. But the only thing he saw were smiles and eyes, or the way somebody smelled. According to his biology textbook, his body should be bombarded with hundreds of hormones every day and drive him into a frenzy state of near constant arousal. He´ll chat up a girl with pretty eyes at a party, but he just doesn´t feel connected to anyone. And, equally alarmingly, they don´t seem all that keen on him. Shouldn´t he at least have had a girlfriend by now? Perhaps he should ask Ann Marge out on a date, see what he´s missing out on. Andrew does have a point, it´s not like he has to marry her. It would at least stop Andrew (and his dad) from speculating about his heterosexuality. 

 

"Did you have a nice time with Andrew, John?" Lydia asks as soon as he announces his return by kicking his shoes off against the wall.  
"It was fine, Lydia." 

Lydia appears in the corridor, a green apron around her slim waist and her blonde curls kept away from a round face. She smiles at John and John forces a smile back. 

"Steak and kidney pie for tea!"

George Watson had married Lydia eight months after his mum died. Harriet had been angry about the marriage, saying that his father was too eager to replace their mother, but John felt that his father deserved some happiness in his life after spending a year watching his wife waste away to cancer. Lydia is a few years younger than George, and worked as schoolteacher. She is a great cook and often looked as though she belonged in a Marks and Spencer add. She is always kind to John and Harriet, despite Harriet´s increasingly vehemence attempts to provoke a reaction from Lydia and their dad by coming home smelling like a pub. 

"Did you hear about the poor boy they found in south-London?" she calls from the kitchen.

"Yes." John replies. He shrugs out of his jeans jacket and tosses his book bag at the foot of the stairs.

"I hope you´re being careful, not wandering off on your own." Lydia wipes her hands on a tea towel and smiles.

"Of course." John slides into his seat by the table "You know me." 

"I know I can always count on you to be cautious and sensible." The "unlike your sister" goes unsaid, but John hears it in the tone Lydia´s voice. He recognizes it easily enough from hearing it so often in his dads´. 

"Yeah. Sensible John," John replies and fixes his gaze on the empty plate in front of him. Lydia ruffles his hair playfully and grabs his plate. John places a hand on his knee to still the restless rhythm his of his foot against the floor and forced another smile at Lydia as she returns the plate, now brimming with pie, pees, carrots, potatoes and brown sauce. 

"So… How is Andrew?" Lydia says pleasantly, taking a seat across from John.  
"He´s fine." John replies, he really doesn´t want to talk about Andrew, "where´s dad?"

"George said he´d be late and not to wait for him. He´s rather busy with work these days." Lydia answers cheerfully.  
John gives a little nod before setting into his pie. For a moment the only sound in the room is the domestic clanking of knives and forks against plates and the clinking of ice cubes in glasses of water. Occasionally, Lydia will sneak a glance at John and smile. John will smile back, because it´s the polite thing to do.

"You know, John…" Lydia starts. "Your father and I am really proud that you´ve set your heart of becoming a doctor and how well you´ve done in the ACF. I´m certain your mother would have been as well."

John feels his cheek turn red and quickly takes a sip of water to hide his reaction and suddenly blurts. "Your brother was in the army, wasn´t he?" 

Lydia looks slightly startled by the sudden change of topic.  
"Carl? Yes, he was. For almost ten years, served with the UN in Bosnia."  
"Did he like it?" John wonders "being a soldier?"  
Lydia places her fork and knife down on the table and wipes her lips with her napkin. 

"Yes. Carl always liked….my mother always said that Carl was a "thrill seeker," always running off on adventures, climbing trees and all sort of stuff. He ran away three times. Never content with every day life, Carl. Need adventure and danger or he´d be bored stiff, he said. An unruly fellow until he signed up. My father always thought the army might give him some discipline and it seemed it did." She pauses "but Carl always said that he found more than danger and thrills in the army. That he had enough adventures to fill his cup and then some. It rather made him appreciate normal, every day life." 

Lydia studies John thoughtfully "but you don´t need to learn discipline, John and you´re not a thrill seeker." Another pause "You´re not thinking about-"

"I well….." John pauses and stares into his dinner "It´s just that, I think it´d be a good fit for me. I like the Army Cadet Forces and I think I´d like the army as well. To get out and see the world, to get some experience. I mean, I´ve never been further away from London than Edinburgh. And the army will pay for medical school so I won´t be burdened with student loans for the rest of my life."

"You´ve thought about this for a while." Lydia says.

"Well, yes" John concedes "it seems….sensible."  
" John, the army is dangerous and…..I worry that you´re….well, you´re too nice for the army."

John looks up from his dinner, startled. "Too nice?"

"John, you never say a bad word about anybody, shy away from conflict-"  
"That´s not true!" John protests, but he knows that it really, really is, because he even ran away from Andrew today just to avoid an argument. 

"If you sign up" Lydia continues, "and get deployed you´ll likely be sent to a combat zone, hundreds of miles away. How will you fare there? Can you kill somebody?"

"Well, I…." John has given this some thought as well, and he´s not sure how he feels about the answer. "I´m pretty sure I could, if it was to defend somebody, or myself."  
He grips his knee forces himself to look up from his dinner to Lydia. For a second, John thinks he sees something resembling surprise pass over Lydia´s face. She wets her lips and suddenly she looks incredibly sad.

"The army changes, people, John. You´re such a nice young man, why would you want to change?"  
"I think there´s more to me than this," he says into his dinner.  
"John" Lydia sighs "you don´t have to prove yourself to anybody."

"I…." John tries, wondering how he can explain to Lydia that he´s worried about being too meek, that he´ll end up going to medical school, finding a job as a GP in London and wiping up vomit and snot and that he´ll be incredibly boring. 

“I just think it´s something I need to do.” Somehow, the more Lydia says she doesn´t think John would fit in the army, the more he wants to join, just to prove her wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish to thank everybody who has been kind enough to leave me kudos and response, you´ve been really wonderful.
> 
> I´m trying my hand on the tense on this story, I´m not if past or present tense is best for a background story, so I may go back an alter it again. I am also still trying to figure out the formate on Ao3, and I hope it isn´t too much hassle to read.
> 
> I also wish to apologize if this comes off as a major prologue, but I feel that John´s backstory is necessary to explain the Omegaverse as it is the bones of the story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for attempted non/con. It´s not very graphic, but a trigger is a trigger.

 

**Warning: Warning for attempted non/con. It´s not very graphic, but a trigger is a trigger.**

 

Disclaimer: None of the characters (except originals ones) belongs to me.

"As an Omega in Heat will excrete pheromones that only an Alpha can smell. In response the Alpha will elicit a scent that is meant to calm and arouse the Omega and to stimulate the body to prepare it for the Mating/Bonding process. It is during this period that the Omega is vulnerable to unwanted sexual advances. A Marked Omega will not be susceptible to an Alpha´s advances and will only respond to its Mate." (Fenway, G. MD An introduction to the A/O Dynamic in Modern Medicine, Oxford University Press: 2003).

 

**Chapter 3.**

John Watson held the drinks high as he navigates the post-exam-rush at the Student´s Union pub. The room is filled with people talking and laughing and the soft clinking of drinks being passed around.

He grimaces in pain as a sharp elbow jabs his side and beer sloshes over the sleeves of his shirt and cardigan.

"Sorry, mate." A low voice grumbles.

John turns to stare up at a broad shouldered man, with narrow eyes and the unshaved jaw of all-nighters. His thin smirk looks far from apologetic, but John returns the forced smile and ducks his head in acknowledgement.

"No worries."

He is about to continue on through the throng of students, when the guy grabs him by collar of his shirt and yanks him to a sudden halt. He twists John around and forces him to meet his gaze. There is tightness in the man´s eyes and is upper lip curls in a half sneer and he leans in closer, wheezing across the back of his neck. His breath feels like somebody´s just poured ice water down the back of his shirt.

"Bloody hell, let go!" John cries, his tone tense and uncertain. The man is at least a head taller than him and the way he´s looking down at John makes his mouth taste like sour bile. He squirms and tries to break free, but the man only tightens his grip on his shirt.

"There´s something unusual about you…." the guy runs his small, beady eyes over John. His gaze lingers longer on John´s pelvic region before they slide up the front of his stomach. He slowly pulls John forward and leans in to close the distance between them and noses along the front of John´s neck. Inhaling. Sniffing.

John can feel beads of sweat forming at the back of his neck, and his breath is escaping him in uneven gasps. His spine stiffens.

"Let go, mate." John says low and tight, hoping his voice sounds menacing. It´s not very effective. All the man does is return his gaze to John´s, his brows narrowing dangerously. The man´s tongue darts out to wet his lips. The sight of it, pink and sharp sends goosebumps scattering all over John´s skin.

“Just-" John has to wet his own lips. He struggles to find his voice and he´s suddenly aware that he is embarrassingly close to stammering "-let go. Please."

He smiles disarmingly at John and finally lets go of John´s shirt. He shrugs lackadaisically, but the movement is stiff and sharp, as if it is with great reluctance he let John free.

"Sure thing, mate." There is something odd about his voice, but John is too relived to be free from his grasp and intrusive nose to study its implication.

He gives John´s shoulder a casual clap that almost sends him crashing to the floor and he finds his footing just in time to stop the drinks from spilling all down the front of his shirt.

The guy returns to his drink, but he cannot not hide the last, lingering, glance he sends John. His face is blank, but his pupils blown wide and dark.

John takes one- two- three steadying breaths and then slowly waves his way through the crowd to the small table in the corner of the pub, where Mike and Andrew waits for him.

"Took you long enough. What was that about? Did he want your number?" Mike teases with an arched brow as he liberates the drinks from John´s hands.

John knows his face turns crimson and he gives a little shrug, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Mike is far gentler in his teasing then Andrew ever is, but John can´t find anything funny about recent exchange.

"Oh, that?" John says, aiming for casual and missing it with about a mile. He wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans to hide that they are shaking. "Nothing at all."

Mike and Andrew exchange a look that tells John that they do not quite believe him. John has been the victim to their shared, silent communication that he knows how to expel any attempt wheedle an answer out him.

"Never mind that," John says, forcing mirth into his trembling voice "we´re here to celebrate the end of-term exams!" He lifts his glass, a little too quickly and drink spills over his wrist.

Andrew raises his own glass and grins. "Hear, hear!"

"To surviving first year of medical school," Mike exclaims cheerfully and tips his head to his friends before he brings his pint to his lips for a long sip.

"To surviving Doctor Fenway," Andrew adds, "for a course that´s only ten credits, it had the workload of twenty."

John nods along in agreement, letting the cold draught cool his flushed nerves.

The pub fills up as more and more student filters in. The music is loud and the mood has grown increasingly more chipper and ridiculous as their table fills with empty glasses. It had started with pints, but as happy-hour rolled around, tequila shots and Bacardi and rum were added to the mixture.

It was not, John later concludes, a very fortunate mixture. Still, it has made him pleasantly buzzed and the encounter with the broad-shouldered guy from earlier has already been suppressed.

Andrew had vanished about an hour ago along with some friends he knew from the law department. John had thought they all looked rather posh in their suit jackets, ties and polished shoes and wished he´d remembered to do some laundry between all the studying. Compared to them he felt like an unwashed hermit.

Mike catches his attention from the bar, winking lewdly and pointing at the blonde girl who has draped herself around Mike´s shoulder and is enthusiastically putting her tongue into his ear. With a pair of painfully cheerful "thumbs-up" Mike announces that he intends to "go forth and procreate."

John slings his jeans jacket over his shoulders, pats his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and keys and in, what he´d later determine was a fit of insanity, drains the rest of the dirty pint they have been building with the various dregs of their drinks.

The air outside is cool and refreshing and John feels slightly more sober. Students are milling about, smoking, laughing and smiling and there is a jaunty and optimistic buzz in the air that the end of term brings. Most of the exams are done and the long stretch of summer spans in front of them.

Medical school is everything John had hoped it would be. He is surrounded by other students, just as serious and dedicated to the studies as he is. He shares a dorm with Mike and Andrew. His room is about the size of a cupboard and mold is growing in the window frame. They share a tiny shower with two other students and a startling, blue kitchen with an unreliable fridge and a stove that won´t let them use the hotplates and the oven at the same time, resulting in some very interesting culinary exercises and a lot of takeaways. The fire-alarm is set off almost every weekend and there always seems to be some sort of party going on, even if it´s only a celebration of "It´s Finally Tuesday."

John loves every second of it.

Even Andrew has finally grasped the seriousness of their academic pursuit. Sometimes John worries in earnest of about his blood-to-coffee ratio, Andrew is quite often the first to leave for the library and the last to return.

His own studies are going well and he must confess that he has grown less enamored with the idea of singing up with the Army, he´s not sure if he´s ready to give up this student way of life.

John suspects he has even done well in Doctor Fenway´s class. Doctor Fenway teaches a mandatory introduction course on the anatomy, physiology and psychology of Alpha and Omegas. John had found the classes fascinating, even if the anatomical diagram of a pregnant male Omega had left him feeling a bit squeamish and uncomfortable.

Most of the students in the class had grouched at what they determined was an unnecessary course-requirement, but as Doctor Fenway had pointed out in the first lecture- a doctor does not choose his patients. Though people usually thinks of Alphas and Omegas as something rare, it is a statistic probability that they´ll come across them in the course of their medical career- regardless of what field they chose to specialize in.

Satisfied that he´s not forgotten anything, John stuffs his hands into his pocket and prepares for the twenty-minute shuffle back to his dorm room.

 

First he thinks it is Mike who has abandoned the blonde appendage and is trying to scare him by yanking an arm around his neck and covering his mouth. It would´t have been the first time. He´s dragged into an ally and John shuffles backwards and until he suddenly feels his back hit a cold, brick wall. The impact almost knocks his breath out. And he knows this isn´t a prank. Run. His conscience tells him. Flee. Run.

"What are you doing-"

His protest dies on his lips as he sees the tall bloke from earlier. Where his eyes had been small and steely before, they are now wide, dark, stormy clouds.

"You…." the guy sneers, his voice low and hard, his hands fisting in John´s jacket.

"Let go." John´s voice cracks on the last syllable. He tries to push himself free, but the guy´s grip is like a vice and the more John struggles against it, the tighter it seems to get.

He feels his heart skip a beat and fear digs into him like a knife, cutting and twisting until it pries his ribs apart.

"Hmmm," the man sighs and leans forward until they are pressed together chest-to-chest. John cringes as he feels the guy drag his nose along the collar of his shirt, along his neck, into his hair and…is he nuzzling him?

"You smell….wonderful" he purrs and John feels his next breath catch in his throat.

"Let me go" John stammers, and tries to shuffle away, but he´s trapped between the brick wall and the titan trailing his nose into John´s hair.

The man smells alcohol of and the sharp, stale stench of sweat. It reminds him of the time he was twelve and forgot his wet gym clothes in a plastic bag over the Christmas holiday. His breath washes over John´s face, humid and heavy.

John grabs at the arms holding him fast, but it is impossible to pry himself free. The man simply thrusts his elbow into John´s chest. His breath hitches and he struggles for his next gasp of air.

"Let, let-" he tries, chocking on his words of protests.

The guy pulls back a little and John gasps for air. The man smiles, almost soft and tentative, and John thinks that this has all been some horrible, terrible joke that is about to end and he pushes against the man to try and break free.

"You´re not going anywhere," he says in a low and tight voice. His grip is still firm, controlled and he´s keeping a struggling John pinned to the wall with just one hand. His thick fingertips dig into John´s bicep and John knows his arm is going to be black, blue and yellow tomorrow.

With the other hand he pushes John´s jacket off his shoulders, trapping John´s arms behind his back. He slides a finger along his neck, pulling the collar away and exposing his neck. The air feels warm and heavy against his clammy skin.

"Hmhm, you´re not even marked. How could anyone let you wander around unchaperoned?" The man drawls, trailing a finger along the exposed expanse of his neck. "You smell delicious." He smacks his lips in pleasure.

John´s chokes on his own breath as he feels the slick slide of a tongue running along his trembling pulse and darting into his ears.

"Let me go!" John grunts. He tries to sound defiant, and strong but he is terrified.

He drags his arm free and clamps both of his hands around the elbow pressing him against the wall. John pushes with all his might, but all it earns him is a low, rumbling chuckle.

"Let you go? I don´t think so. I´ve been scenting you all evening, you know." He looks faintly amused and bemused.

John freezes. "What the bloody hell do you mean?"

The man draws his head back and laughs, a strange, keening sound that sends shivers down John´s spine.

"Oh, this is precious" the man smirks. He curves towards John and runs his hand roughly through John´s hair, smoothing it back. "You´re such a young, delicate little thing." He tells John, quiet and harsh and grim.

John stares at him, wide-eyed and utterly terrified. He can´t seem to break free of his attacker´s grip, so he tries to retreat by pressing against brick wall, clawing for purchase. The pressure against his chest is building and building and his breath escapes in high-pitched, ragged wheezes. This is actually happening to him.

"You don´t even know what you are. Untainted." He does´t sound at all displeased.

He pushes forward again and John holds his breath as the man runs his meaty fingers along John´s face, sliding along his jaw to cup the back of his neck. Some part of John recognized the caress as attempting to be tender, maybe even caring, but all it did was send warm tendrils of fear along his spine to his knees.

He is suddenly afraid that he´s going to pass out and lose what little control he has of the situation. Besides Ann Marge Sandridge John does´t have a lot of experience with sex. He´s never had another guy kiss him before, or touch him in any other context than a handshake or a friendly clap on the shoulder. He knows the technicalities of gay-sex, or at least as much as he can learn from watching pornography.

But knowing does´t really matter. This is going to be non-consensual. Rape.

He feels a pair of hard lips drag across his forehead and down his cheek. Dry, capped lips presses against his mouth. The kiss is rough and firm and there´s too much teeth scraping over his lips and the tongue thrusts against his mouth, forcing his lips to part. After what seems like hours, the kiss ends and the man pulls away, saliva and spit dripping down John´s chin.

"Please", John tries feebly. "Let me go." The pounding of his heart is fighting a losing battle with churning his stomach and he wonders how the man will react if John vomits on him. He´s not sure if the situation can get any worse.

The man snorts and slides hand to John´s shoulder, gripping it tight and pressing and John can´t do anything but let his legs give in and he falls down, knocking his knees against ground. He locks his gaze on his own shoes and feels his eyes burn. He´s not going to do it. He´s not going to giving the man the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He´s not going to beg.

John can feel the man move his hand back to dig into John´s hair, holding him in place.

"You know what to do."

This close to the man´s groin, the stench is overwhelming and cloying. John can see the evidence of an erection pressing against the man´s pants. John slams his eyes shut. He tries to control his rising panic, to breath through mouth so he does´t have to deal with the clogging scent of the man in front of him.

The grip on his hair tightens painfully.

"Do it." The man demands and yanks John´s face forward, pressing his face against his thigh. John feels his breath explode in a terrified gasp and he tries to steady himself. To push himself away. He grips the mans´s thighs, his palms are slick with sweat and he struggles to find a grip. John keeps his eyes closed, if he´s about to be raped, he does´t want to see it.

He struggles to unfasten the zipper, his fingers shaking and his eyes closed. The man grows impatient and John hears the sound of a belt being unbuckled and with a tight growl the man frees himself. He can feel the man´s breath ghost over the top of his head, heavy, warm. Panting.

John is still struggling to breath. He´s never been so terrified and he quickly abandons his previous promise to himself of not to beg. He can´t do this. He can´t.

"Please." He gasps, his voice trembling. "Please-"

There´s a slight change in the flow of air over his scalp and for a moment John thinks that maybe the man is going to tell John to just relax, that he´s not going to hurt him. But John knows it´s going to hurt, probably even for the rest of his life. His mind is hazy with panic and he breaks his next promise as well and lets his tears trickle down his cheek.

"Please." He sobs.

“You´re so sweet,” the man coos. He tilts his head down to John and licks the salt trail away.

Suddenly the grip on his hair disappears and he falls forward, his chin hitting the ground and his mouth fills with the terrible taste of his own blood as he bites his own tongue.

John glances up, just in time to see his attacker, sneer at the interloper standing over him.

The man is dressed in ragged jeans, a plaid shirt and a black leather jacket and he looks too old, too experienced, to be a student. His red hair is shaved in a crew cut and he holds himself in a fighter´s stance, his hands fisted at his side.

The man wipes blood from his split lip and narrows his gaze, glaring at the red-haired man.

"He is mine," he roars, "I saw him first!"

"No. He is mine," the man says in an voice heavily tinged with his American accent.

John slowly picks himself up. His body feels hot and heavy. He dusts grime and dusts off his clothes with trembling hands and tries to regain control over his breath. He coughs, spitting out phlegm of blood and wipes his mouth to try and get rid of the taste of blood and the man´s venomous kiss. John blinks away two fat tears that rolls down his chin and shakes his head to clear his vision. His heart is hammering in his chest, beating I´m alive, I´m alive, I´m unarmed.

The American barrels into the other man until he is pressed up against the wall and his elbow slams into his neck keeping him locked in place. The man growls and spits, but the American´s grip is firm and unrelenting. The man struggles inefficiently.

John won´t know what the large man sees in the Americans gaze until he finds himself staring down terrified and furious insurgents in Afghanistan.

"You are going to walk away from here and keep on walking until you´re back home. You are never going to lay a hand on him again. Do I make myself clear?" The American bares his teeth. He digs his elbow into the man´s windpipe. "Do I?"

The man struggles for a moment before he falls limp against the wall. A heavy moment of silence passes and the man is obviously calculating his odds against the American. John holds his breath. The man lowers his gaze. There´s a small, petulant nod.

"Get lost" the American says with a dismissive shake of his head and pulls back, letting the man lose. The man looks to John and John feels his body freeze in fright. The American growls and the man hunches his shoulders and dips his chin, avoiding eye contact. He moves slowly, raggedly, like a dog slinking away from a fight it just lost.

When he disappears around the corner, John lets free a shaking sob and clutches his knees, doubling over to stop his vision spinning. He´s afraid he´s going to do something undignified and throw up after all.

The American watches him and then turns to John, he places a hand on John´s shoulder and John flinches and yanks away.

"Don´t worry, I´m not gonna hurt you", the American says softly.

John coughs, hating how week and feeble he must seem.

"You all right?" He knots his brows, regarding John with obvious concern. "Inhale through your mouth and exhale through your nose. Keep your head down. You´ll feel better."

"Yeah, yeah" John wheezes and swallows. "I´m, I´m fine." John clears his throat and pulls himself up. He forces a smile that he knows doesn´t reach his eyes.

"Thanks. For. You know. Saving me."

"That looked like it was about to get really nasty. You should´t be out on your own when you´re….you know." The American gives a vague gesture in what John, confusedly, thinks was his pelvis.

"I´m what?" John blinks.

The American groans and runs a hand down his face. "Sheesh, don´t tell me you don´t know what you are."

"I´m a…." John stutters.

"You´re an Omega. You´re a few days away from your Heat. Shit, I could smell you from a block away."

"I´m a-no. You must be mistaken."

"I´m really not." The American wrinkles his nose. "Look-" he pauses, clearly giving space for John to share his own name.  
"John."  
"John." The American nods slowly. "I´m Sam Milligan."  
John moves to shake his hand, but Sam pulls back, raising both his hands in surrender. "I should´t be touching you. Smelling you is bad enough."

"You´re an Alpha."  
"Yes. And the only reason I´m not…." he looks at John exhales steadily. "I´m already Bonded." He pauses again, clearly giving John time to let the implicating of that statement sink in.  
"Bonded?"  
"I have a Mate, he´s…..well, we´re here to see a specialists."

"Oh" John says stupidly, before fiercely clamping his voice shut.

Sam Milligan gives him an odd, little half-smile.

"Look, John. You´ve obviously have no idea what´s going on. I suggest you let me follow you home, just to ensure that you´ve get home safely and then tomorrow you´d best go off and see Doctor Fenway."  
"Do-Doctor Fenway?"  
"He´ll explain everything to you, John. The whole Alpha-Omega dynamics. What to expect from your life from now on and how to get Suppressant so you don´t….smell so enticing."

"I…." John takes a breath that is equal part calm and terrified. His thoughts swim, he feels dizzy again. John wonders how long he´s going to be overwhelmed about what happened to him. What almost happened.

He´s an Omega.

"I know this is a lot to wrap your head around," Sam tells John "Your life is going to be….different. You´re going to need to take some precautions. Or next time you might not escape unharmed"

"I…." John tries again, still not finding his voice.

"It´s safest to not let people know you´re an Omega, Alphas are very good at blending in and some them aren´t as….well. You know." His voice is still and somber. John gets the feeling this isn´t the first time he´s come across this particular tableau.

"I´m….I´m" John tries, looking at his shoes for his courage or voice or anything helpful. His sneakers are unhelpfully silent. His stomach is tying itself in knots. "Are you sure?"

Sam nods grimly. "There´s really no mistaking that scent" his voice is kind and gentle, "I´m sorry you had to find out this way. I wish I could tell you that all Alphas aren´t like that brute, but the scent of an Omega nearing its Heat is only surpassed by the scent of an Omega at the height of its Heat."

His throat feels like he´s swallowed sandpaper and he swallows again and again. He can´t escape the sinking feeling in his stomach. An Omega. He is an Omega.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish to thank everyone who has sent me their kind words of support or left me a kudos.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last "prologue." There is a bit of dialogue and I apologize if things seems sketchy.

"Suppressants have been available to Omegas since the beginning of the 1950s and allows the Omegas to live in without the symptoms of Heats. Some criticizes the medication (see Cardwell, et.al 1980) saying: "it is society´s perception of the Omegas that must change, and not the Omegas that must hide." However, the majority of the Omegas would not be able to function in metropolitan settlements and societies without the aid of Suppressants….""….. The Suppressants must be taken continuously for the effects to be lasting. An Omega will enter his Heat four to five days after stopping taking their Suppressants. Today the majority of the Suppressants comes disguised as vitamin supplements and are prescribed with a blue prescription."  
( Fenway, G. M.D Case-study of an Alpha. A/O/B Press: 2000. 4th edition)

 

Chapter 4

"Your situation is not as an unusual as you may believe, Mister Watson. The majority of Omegas do not recognize their gender until an Alpha triggers their first Heat." Doctor Fenway folds his hands on the desk and regards John over the rim of his half-moon glasses. 

"However, I must concede that male Omegas are exceedingly rare. I am honored to make your acquaintance." He looks at John expectantly and adds "fascinating."

John Watson clutches the arms of the uncomfortable wooden chair Doctor Fenway has placed him on. He tries very hard not to squirm. He wishes that Doctor Fenway would not sound so bloody cheerful about his predicament. 

His head is throbbing and his palms are sleek with sweat, no matter how many times he tries to wipe them on his pants. He can´t remember ever feeling this uncomfortable, this aroused. His face and ears are crimson. His stomach is tying and untying itself in knots. For years he´d wondered why his lab-partner´s cleavage did not arouse him and now he´s so hard it´s painful and embarrassing.

"Life is going to be different for you, Mister Watson." Doctor Fenway continues unabashedly.

John knows him as the only lecturer in King´s College London who teaches the mandatory course in Alpha-Omega physiology and anatomy and he´s only seen him from the back row of the lecture theater. He´d looked smaller from afar. Up close John sees that he is slender man in his late forties with small, brown eyes and a beaky nose. He dresses like most of the professors and lecturers on campus, in tweed and a plaid shirt. Despite his dull and bland attire there is something regal about his posture and the way he´s studying John. It makes John slightly uneasy without being able to say exactly why.

"You are going to experience Heats and heightened senses, improved sight, hearing and smell. This is of course to allow the Omega to protect itself and its Mate´s offspring from dangers." Doctor Fenway continues.

"Until you are Bonded by an Alpha you are at risk of being sexually pursued, harassed and I won´t sugarcoat it, assaulted by Alphas. Bounded Omegas are quite safe from Alphas, which is why many Omega chose to almost as soon as they present." 

Doctor Fenway´s gaze remains even and his voice calm, but to John´s pounding headache his voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard. John cringes and sinks back into his chair, wishing a black hole would simply swallow him up. His skin feels like it´s on fire, it itches and he keeps studying his hands and arms, looking for the welts of mosquito bites.

"I know this is a lot of take in, Mister Watson. Your body is going to undergo rapid changes, a second- well, in your case, first puberty. But it is all a natural part of the process your body undergoes to adapt to being an Omega. It will be all right." John thinks he sounds sincere. He isn´t really sure, and he wonders if this is the tone of voice that comes from years of delivering bad news.

"With the proper medication," Doctor Fenway continues unheeding of John´s distress, "you will live with no discomfort during your Heats and with a low-chance of unwanted pregnancy."

"Pregnancy. Medication" John says, his voice strangely hoarse and breathless. He almost can´t recognize it. "You mean, Suppressants."

"Quite, quite," Doctor Fenway smiles and folds his hands on his desk. 

"I know you have paid attention in class, Mister Watson," Doctor Fenway continues. John suddenly feels as if he is about to be quizzed. John has always been a diligent student. He straightens his posture.

"Suppressants will mask my stop my body excreting Mating pheromones."  
"Precisely."

There´s a heavy silence in the room. John runs his hand through his hair, mostly to have something to do with it. To bid himself time to wrap his mind around what Doctor Fenway is not telling him. Finally, it trickles in.

"But if I am on permanent medication, I won´t be permitted to join the military."

Doctor Fenway´s smile slides away and his posture loses some of its formality. He sighs and suddenly looks all of his years of academia.

"I am afraid, Mister Watson that our society is not quite as egalitarian as we would wish it. The majority of Alphas are attracted to the military, to high-risk occupations. I fear that their competitive, dominant personality is drawn to the danger and violence often found with a military career. In fact, the occupation where you will the largest percentage of Alphas is in American mercenary companions who have more….lax view of acceptable levels of brutality." Fenway stops for a moment to polish his glasses. 

"The truth is, Mister Watson, that Alphas have a harder time than Omegas of adhering to the social norms and conventions excepted of members of an organized society." He pauses again.

"Unofficially the armed forces quite often encourages Alphas to seek a military career because they make good soldiers. They have above average strength, they are, protective, aggressive, assertive and-"

"- and Omegas are considered psychologically meek and powerless" John grumbles.

"-Omegas tends to seek careers in care taking. Nurses. Doctors. Primary schoolteachers. Orderlies." Doctor Fenway says all this with unbearable nonchalance, as if he´s not ripping John´s entire life apart.

 

After Sam Milligan had rescued him from the Alpha who had assaulted him in the alley of the Student Union´s pub, he´d walked John home, keeping a careful distance until John was safely inside his door.

John hadn’t been able to sleep. He had been feeling hot and restless with his breath hitching in his throat and the night playing on repeat over and over again in his mind. First he had felt exceedingly embarrassed. Not because he was an Omega, but because he´d been too paralyzed to do anything. His words too thick to get out. He couldn’t do anything but sob and beg his assailant to let go. But he hadn´t, and if Sam Milligan hadn´t arrived when he did, John would have- he could not even finish thinking the sentence.

As the night waned to dawn, the embarrassment gave way to anger.

He was bitter at the gods, life and the universe in general for dealing him such a rotten hand. He was annoyed at himself for letting himself be compromised, and he was furious for not having the ability to defend himself. Reliable and diligent John Watson. He knew the Periodic Table by heart. He knew snippets of Shakespeare´s sonnets, all the Prime Ministers since Gladstone and could do long divisions in his head. He´d joined the Army Cadet Forces to learn how to save people. He knew how to stand at attention, to assemble a gun and to complete a parade march. 

He didn´t know how to defend himself. He didn´t know how to fight. He´d never been in a scuffle his entire life. Harriet had, of course, but John had always shied away from conflict. 

Was any of the choices he´d made been his. Had he decided to pursue a profession in medicine because he had a caring and nurturing personality? Was this all because he was an Omega? Was he designed, by nature, to be timid and weak? A caretaker. Is that what Lydia had meant when she said that John wouldn’t be suitable for the army. Had she known?

The thought made him livid. To have his choices dictated to biology, he won´t stand for it. He is determined now, to join the military. He´ll learn how to fight and defend himself and others. He was never going to let himself be in situation again where he would have to beg.

"That is the conformed social opinion," Doctor Fenway says, dragging John out of his trail of thought. Fenway rises slowly and crosses the distance to the large bookshelf, overflowing with medical textbooks and papers.

"The military´s stance is that an Omega in an Alpha-dominated occupation poses a risk to everybody involved. If there is an Omega who forgets to take his Suppressants and goes into Heat, the Alpha cannot be trusted to be able to maintain control. He´ll attack. He´ll rape. It causes undesired legal ramification for everybody involved, especially the military."

"Are there no Suppressant for the Alpha´s urges?" John asks, shifting on his chair. It seems wholly unfair that it is up to the Omegas to hide their true gender. To mask their scents and avoid careers and lifestyles that are considered Alpha-dominated. 

"The Alpha´s urges" Doctor Fenway says, trailing his fingers along the spine of the books until it finds what it is looking for. Fenway pulls out slim, green, book and brings it over to the desk. 

"Putting it simply- the Alpha´s urges is a part of the human brain that in Alpha-Omega nomenclature is called the "lizard brain". It is their most base, most primeval urges. It is almost impossible for them to suppress the most basic instinct of their nature. Controlling hormones is something we have mastered."

John nods along with Fenway´s words, and accepts the book and studies the tittle: An Omega´s Guide by Alexander Lee Finkle. He flips idly through the booklet. He hates how his body throbs in sudden burst of arousal when he sees the graphic depiction of an Omega´s reproductive organs and the Alpha Knot. It seems that even medical diagrams turns him on. He suddenly realizes that if faced with the prospect, if a man, an Alpha, propositions him, he would probably quite happily let him spread his legs and-

He snaps the book shut with a grimace and hastily dismisses the image. Beads of sweat trickles down the back of his neck and he tugs at his collar, trying to slow the rapid beating of his heart. He runs his hand through his hair again and steals a glance at Doctor Fenway, glad to see he still seems ignorant of Johns discomfort.

"What about" John swallows, his throat arid "if Alphas meet Omega civilian?"

Doctor Fenway´s mouth twists into a bitter line and he cleans his glasses again.

"The situation that nobody speaks about, Mister Watson" Fenway says somberly, his eyes hard "is that it is still a common practice in many underdeveloped countries to Bind Omegas to Alphas as soon as they present. It is considered Human Trafficking, but there are far more Alphas than Omegas, and Omegas are being considered a valuable commodity." 

There´s a solemn silence in the room for a while, John struggles to find the appropriate words to fill it with. He doesn’t manage to.

"Look, Mister Watson," Doctor Fenway says, his voice gentle. "I am not going to tell you what you can and cannot do, only offer you some advice, guidance-" he pauses for a moment. 

"I know the life of discrimination that you may face. If you take your Suppressants there is no reason anybody should ever recognize you as an Omega."

"You mean, I´ll just have to lie to everybody for the rest of my life?" John clutches the green book tightly in his hands. 

"Nobody is likely to ask you," Doctor Fenway reasons. He opens a drawer and pulls out a prescription pad and quickly scrawls a signature on it before offering it to John. John accepts the note and stares at it "Don´t ask, don´t tell."

"Precisely. I suggest you start on these as soon as possible, the first Heat is always the worst."

John nods, slowly rising from his chair and tucking the book and the prescription away in his bag.

"This isn´t the end of your life, Mister Watson. And it certainly isn´t the end of your medical career. You are quite likely to excel at it, or any other career you might chose to pursue."

"So long as it´s not the military" John mutters.

"Yes."

"What would I…..What would I have to do to join the military?"

Doctor Fenway steeples his fingertips in front of his lips.

"Why are you so set on a career in the military, mister Watson?"

"I know this probably sounds cliché, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Yesterday I was assaulted and I had no idea what to do, I just stood there, frozen, terrified and I never want to feel like that again. They all say Omegas aren´t fit for a life in the army, and maybe that is true, but I think that´s something I should get to decide and prescribed by society."

Doctor Fenway regards John from over the top of his glasses. "John, being an Omega, it is nothing to be ashamed over."

John´s knuckles turn white.

"I´m not- I´m not ashamed." John says through gritted teeth. "But I won´t let this dictate how I am going to live my life."

"John…." Doctor Fenway says, his voice tentative. John can sense the hesitation in his words. He sounds almost playful. "I am not…what I am saying now, it is totally off the record."

Doctor Fenway slowly pries open a drawer on his desk and takes out a small, leather-bound book. From the book he pries out a business card and carefully slides it across the desk to John, careful to keep it just out of reach.

"This is the name and number of a supplier. Upon my instructions, he´ll provide you the Suppressants without logging your name in any database. They´ll come disguised as vitamins. He´ll give you as many as you wants. I am only offering you this because, well- John" Doctor Fenway clears his throat. John thinks he looks chagrined, but he quickly schools his features. "I want you to promise me something in return."

"What?" John says cautiously.

"I want you to keep in touch with me, to come in for checkups every year." Doctor Fenway keeps one finger on the card and his eyes on John.

"Check-ups" John says bitterly "you mean, examinations."

Doctor Fenway´s finger remains still on the card as he says. His eyes are suddenly tight. "Male Omegas are incredible rare, Mister Watson. Your name will not be on any records and there will be no intrusive examinations. All I am asking is that you come and speak to me, when time permits."

John drags a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. Just yesterday he had been celebrating his first year of medical school with Andrew and Mike. The long stretch of summer ahead of him. He was going to work in a nursing home for some hands-on experience. He was going to visit Lydia, George and Harriet and spend warm summer nights on his porch.

Now he is an Omega. He´d have to submit himself to a life on Suppressants and society´s stigma. Everyone would think he was powerless, somebody who needs an Alpha to take care of him. In a few days he´d go into his first proper Heat and spend four days in agony unless he submits himself to an Alpha and let him- 

His head spins and he quickly grabs his knees, bending over to try and seize control of his vertigo. He feels hot and cold at the same time, clammy, queasy and slightly aroused. He feels Doctor Fenway move close to him and place a hand on his back. The touch electric and he brushes off the unwanted touch.

"I´ve no real choice" John grumbles. "I mean, if I register it´s going to be out there, for every future employer."

"Society is changing, Mister Watson. But not fast enough for you."

Doctor Fenway opens the large oak door and is about to usher John out of his office, when he suddenly stops. His hand grips John´s shoulder tightly and John can hear the sudden, sharp intake of a gasp.

Sitting on a rickety, plastic chair outside is a man who could be anywhere between twenty and thirty. His blonde hair is combed and styled and he is dressed in a pinstripe suit, like so many law school students John has seen on campus. The man looks up from his magazine when the door opens and John notices pale eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses. He rises slowly, as if John is a scared animal he doesn´t want to spook. He is just a bit shorter than John, but his posture is anything but timid. 

He closes the distance between them, inhaling the air. He bends smoothly forward, his nostrils flaring and he slowly trails his eyes over John as if he´s attempting to memorize every inch of him. John can feel his pulse quicken and the sudden throb of pure want makes his knees wobbly. The young man grins, his smile all predatory, sleek and Alpha. A dark flush creeps up along John´s neck to his cheeks, painting them red with desire.

Doctor Fenway steps forward with a frown "Adam Haversaw."

"Mister Haversaw." Doctor Fenway moves again, putting himself between John and the Alpha.

"Doctor Fenway" Haversaw says in a voice that is all black silk and lust. His eyes never leave John and John feels his pulse escalate and his breath catch in his throat. 

Doctor Fenway quickly pushes John further behind him until he is fully shielding him with his own body.

"Why don´t you wait in my office, Mister Haversaw?"

Haversaw arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow and tilts his head. John can´t help remembering Doctor Fenway´s description as the Alpha instinct as the "lizard brain." The way he is swaying his head, looking at John, no- studying him, as if John is a particularly juicy piece of meat that had happened to wander into his path. In some way, John swallows hard. He supposes he is. He is an Omega and this is an Alpha all deadly instinct and urges that they say cannot be controlled.

"Why don´t you introduce me to your acquaintance?" Haversaw returns smoothly and leans around Doctor Fenway´s back to give John a sharp smile that was all teeth.

John crosses his arms and tries discreetly to wipe his sweaty palms on his jacket. Don´t let him see how frightened you really are, he thinks. Don´t let him sense that you want him. He knows his heart thundering against his ribcage and his Omega pheromones is betraying his emotions.

"Now, now" Doctor Fenway says in a calm voice. He´s trying to be soothing, but the effort is wasted on Haversaw who simply pushes Doctor Fenway away and wraps his arm around John´s shoulder.

"My name," he purrs "is Adam Haversaw." His face curls into a fake mockery of his smile and his eyes are like pieces of coal. 

John swallows again, his tongue feels thick and heavy and he struggles to make it form the words of protests that is racing through his mind: Get away, get away, get away, getawaygetaway. His skin feels as though it is on fire, tendrils of heat and lust twisting and curling at his groin.

"Who are you?" one hand trails slowly up and down John´s arm, stopping his elbow and grasping it firmly. "Has anybody told you that you smell divine?"

"I…." John tries.

John blinks away tears. His body is curling against Adam´s lean frame. And he wants, he wants- he was almost crawling out of his skin with a desperate need to let Adam fulfill all the promises glinting in his dark eyes. In the alleyway all he had felt was terrified and horrified, now was suspended between being aroused and awed. 

Is this how all Omegas feel when they encounter an Alpha while in Heat? John will never again chide them from hiding their gender, for taking Suppressant and shying away from Alpha dominated occupations. How could even his own body betray him so?

"Let him go Mister Haversaw." 

There is no more calm and kindly-Doctor Fenway standing in the corridor. His lips are set in a thin line and his eyes hard. Adam twists away from John, now putting John behind his back and glares viciously at Doctor Fenway. "No!" 

John eyes huge and dilated, unmoving and he is utterly glued to the spot.

"I am not asking, Adam."

Adam´s grip tightens on John´s arm and John winces in pain. "He is mine and you cannot take him." John thinks that Adam is trying to sound amused but he´s failing abysmally.

"Adam" Doctor Fenway snaps. He closes the distance between the two and grabs Adam´s chin, twisting his head so that Adam had no choice but to look at Fenway. 

Something indistinguishable passes between the two of them. They are standing close together, like they are familiar, like they have done this before. Adam gives Fenway a mean grin, but Fenway´s eyes remains hard.

"Awwww" Adam pouts. He sounds wounded, but John knows it´s not real.

"I´ll see you later, pet" Adam calls. His smile is sharkish.


	5. Chapter 5

"It is the Omegas prerogative to strive to be useful for its potential mate. Scientists and scholars have spent a lot of ink trying to explain if this is a biochemical urge, a psychosomatic one or a cultural construction. Some biochemists (most notably Hartland, Lovelock, 1989;1967) maintain that an Alpha releases pheromones when in an endorphin rush at that this scent stimulates and endorphin response in the Omega. Others (Cardoc et.al 1993) have compared the pleased Alpha to a purring cat and that Omegas finds this response relaxing and comforting. The crux of the matter seems to be that as long as an Alpha is happy, the Omega is happy. Some scholars (Locke et.al 2013) are today, however, questioning the validity of this research. “Contemporary scholars, ”Locke claims “need to study the relationship from the Omega's perspective. Omegas are not docile servants that only lives to ensure the Alphas´s happiness”  
(Finkle., Alexander L. An Omega´s Guide 3. ed. A/O/ Press: 2010)

Chapter 5.

In the end it´s not really being an Omega that shipwrecks John´s life. He´s shot in the shoulder when he´s trying to save the life of a wounded American soldier. His fellow soldiers and officers calls him a hero, he´s given a medal and there is a notice of it in the local newspaper that George and Lydia cuts out, frames and hangs on the wall in entrance way.

John brings the bullet wound back from Afghanistan and a dull, persistent throb in his leg that flares up with the change in the weather. He´s discharged with a cane, a white scar spit across his shoulder and a head full of ghosts. He puts his medal in a shoebox and hides it at the back of his wardrobe.

The Veteran Association arranges a new address for him in the council flats in Paradise Gardens, and John wonders if the place was named to install a false sense of hope in its tenants.

It consists of 213 flats that were built in precast concrete slabs that were hastily put together in the mid-sixties. The flats are miserable at first sight and it only gets worse the longer you look at them. The building association planted trees and flowers, but nothing really grows in concrete, and soon they gave up keeping the playground free of syringes and broken glass. The entire structure is dismal sights with its narrow windows like blackened teeth in an unwelcoming smile. John hates everything about his new home. 

The wail of police sirens is so frequent that he quickly learns to let it dim into the ambient noise of people crying, shouting, moaning and fucking. John likes the sounds, it reminds him of the war zone, and the distorting noises are better than the clamor from the fateful gunshot that vibrated through his head when he was bleeding out in the arid sands.

The neighbors are as brutal as the concrete prison they live in and John tries to avoid them as much as possible. It´s easy to do and they ignore him as well. A man with a cane and a limp is not somebody worthy of a second glance. Two teenagers make that mistake one Friday afternoon and John walks away with a slight spring of satisfaction in his step and the content of his wallet still safely in his pocket.

The wall-to-wall carpets in his flat are beige with various patches of dark stains that his Omega nose lets him identify as blood and vomit. The previous occupants were heavy smokers and have left the ceiling and curtains in an unhealthy yellow pallor. The scents are overwhelming and John spends the two first days trying to scrub the place clean with bleach. It does little to improve the situation. He suspects the malodor is etched into the cracks and crevices of the walls and the floorboards. 

John cannot bother to unpack anything but his teacup, his laptop and his gun. The latter he keeps in a drawer by his bedside table. 

He buys a cheap kettle and lives off pre-packed dinners from Marks and Spencer and takeaway. He gets a few emails from Mike Stamford and one from Lydia asking him if he wants to visit them in Brighton. He replies politely to Mike´s inquiries and ignores Lydia´s offer. She´ll only look at him with reprimanding eyes and a terse: I told you so in her thin smiles.

Every day John looks at himself in the small mirror over his bath. There is a harshness in his eyes that he doesn’t remember seeing before. The desert has carved his young face hard and he´s grateful that he´s not the same John Watson who was assaulted in the backstreet of his Student Union Pub. He never wants to be that John Watson again.

He spends his nights staring at the growing damp mold patch on his ceiling, trailing his eyes along the cracks that creep from the lamp and towards the window. He grits his teeth and carries on, day after day. It´s all meant to be temporary, just until he can get control of his trembling hand and his bad leg. But temporary turns into weeks and then months and when spring comes around again, he´s still staring at the stains in his apartment. 

I live here now. He thinks. He twists in his tangled sheets and stare at drawer in his bedside cabinet. This is my life now.

Every month he meets with Doctor Fenway for his Omega session. Doctor Fenway tests his senses and reflexes, and makes John feel like a bloodhound. He asks hundreds of questions about his life in the army and living amongst Alphas. About the Suppressants and how well they worked. Were there any side effects? Did he ever feel any sort of compulsion to the Alphas in his regiments?

John gives vague answers that Doctor Fenway writes down in a little brown book. Two years ago Doctor Fenway asked John if he could presents their conversation as a case study and John had refused vehemently. He couldn´t imagine he´d want more than having his life as an Omega dissected and discussed, even if he would remain under a pseudonym. 

"How are you adjusting to civilian life?" Doctor Fenway ends each session with, and each time John Watson insists "Fine. Just fine. Nothing ever happens."

Until eventually, every thing does. In just one day.

He meets Mike Stamford in a park and he cannot bear to tell Mike about the gun in his drawer, his terrible beige apartment and the bloodstain in his living room. Instead he spins some story about searching for a flat in central London, but that the prices are too high. Before he knows it he´s agreed to go and look at a flat share with a man called Sherlock Holmes and a few hours after that he´s kneeling over the corpse of a woman dressed in pink. They chase a cab across London and John finds himself caught up investigating a serial killer. 

Suddenly things are interesting and he can´t remember having this much fun in a long time. Which, he suspects, says something about his definition of “fun.”

Serving in the army made John Watson learn to appreciate his heightened Omega senses. His keen eyesight gave him a reputation for being a crack shot and a marksman. One of his superiors had jokingly lamented John´s medical career choice when he obviously belonged behind the scope of a sniper rifle. 

John had never been as grateful for his sharp eyesight as he was that evening when he put a bullet through the cabbie´s head and saved his recently acquired flat mate.

On their walk back to 221B Baker Street, John isn´t quite sure what he is happiest about- being allowed to return home with a charismatic new friend who cured his limp, that he killed a very bad man, or the fact that he doesn’t have to return to his brown and dull council flat. For the first time in month John felt useful. He felt like Captain John Watson, and not a crippled Omega living in a council estate. 

"Oh." Sherlock turns to regard John. "There is perhaps one other thing you need to know about me, as we´re to be flat mates."

"Don´t see how it can be worse than any of the things you´ve mentioned so far." John mumbles.

"I´m an Alpha."

For a second John doesn’t have the brainpower required to make his legs move and figure out the implications of what Sherlock just said. 

Sherlock, however, doesn’t seem to notice his reaction. "I know it´s a frightfully oblique and outdated classification, but I am required by our foolish law to inform you."  
"I see…"

"But you, of course having been in the military, are accustomed to Alphas and our proclivities. Not that I am in any way beholden to them."

"Well, yes-" And it is true, John has shared bunks with Alphas and even one of his commanders had been an Alpha. None of them had ever indicated that they suspected John was an Omega and John had learned to remain indifferent to their idiosyncrasies. 

"So, you really needn’t worry." Sherlock finishes.  
"I´m not worried." John adds hastily.  
"Well, of course you´re not." Sherlock says in a tone of voice that suggests that he actually doesn't quite believe John at all. John´s insulted by the suggestion because he did after all just save Sherlock´s life.   
"Really." John says firmly "I am not."  
"Right."  
"Let´s order Chinese."

John lives on a high after the case. 

He writes about it in his blog and gets many favorable comments, Lydia and Mike applauds his efforts, but he has to delete Harriet´s obscene remarks. He gets a part-time job as a general practitioner at a local clinic to be able to keep up his share of the rent. He doesn’t even feel remotely displeased with having ended up fulfilling Andrew´s premonition of John tending to sniveling children. 

He takes up football again with a group of veterans and some mates from the clinic, he drinks tea with their landlady Mrs. Hudson and he goes to the pub with Mike Stamford and sometimes D.I Lestrade. His cane is left behind his wardrobe where it quickly gathers dust. His gun remains in his bedside table. He doesn’t think about it, but it´s nice to know that it´s there for when next time he needs it (and he is sure there will be a next time.)

Living with Sherlock takes some getting used to. Especially all the body parts in the fridge, the experiments strewn through the apartment and the violin serenades at three in the morning. John considers all this a stark upgrade from the nightly sounds at Paradise Gardens. 

The violin is nice, when Sherlock is in a good mood. Often, though everything else about Sherlock, from the way he dresses to the things he says, broadcasts repulsion to everyone about everything. Sometimes Sherlock reacts outright aggressively when things don’t go his way or when he is bored. Though John privately thinks that his tantrums have nothing on the three-year old boy who stuffed a Jellybean up his left nostril. 

John still can´t really tell if this is all some sort of self-defense on Sherlock´s part, Alpha attitude or just how Sherlock is. 

 

When he has a case or when he is engaged in some experiment involving pinecones or dirt samples Sherlock is brilliant. He is mesmerizing. Sherlock sees hundreds of things that the rest of the world dismisses as irrelevant and meaningless. Sherlock sees everything. Well, that´s not quite correct, John amends. Sherlock doesn’t see the world, he observes. 

John kind of forgets for a several weeks at a time that Sherlock is an Alpha. Then, of course, comes the sulk of such epic proportions, so acrid it could have peeled paint off the walls. There are days when Sherlock doesn’t bother getting dressed ("clothes are boring, John!") or getting up from the sofa ("the world is boring!") or doing other pedestrian things such as eating ("also boring"!) or much to the displeasure of John´s heightened senses- showering. 

He´s not like any Alphas John has ever meet before. Then again, Sherlock isn´t like anyone John has ever met before. The thing is, John quickly realizes, is that Sherlock is interesting. He´s charming. (And handsome). He´ll happily steamrolls over social conventions and established norms. He´s funny. 

John is always careful to avoid touching Sherlock more than necessary or to intrude upon his personal space. Not that Sherlock is as generous with his own regard for John´s personal space. He even steals his laptop and cellphones and shows no remorse in reading John´s text messages or emails.

But´s fine. It´s all fine. In a maddening, infuriating sort of way.

And then, things start to change between them. Well, it changes for John and he doesn´t realize it until Sherlock decides to test his powers of observation and deduction.

The woman sitting in the chair in front of them had been blubbering non-stop for almost five minutes. Sherlock remains uncharacteristically silent, perching on the edge of his chair, watching her with cat-like anticipation with his fingers steepled under his chin. He looks, as usually, unimpressed by the woman´s heartfelt tale of woe.

John wonders how many hundreds of things Sherlock has deduced about their (possible) client in the short time she's been here. He's able to come to a few conclusions of his own. She's in that indeterminable age-range where a woman can be anything between thirty-five and forty-five, but the makeup around her eyes makes him suspect the latter rather than the former. Her dress is one he has recently seen in a Marks and Spencer's add, but she is carrying a Marcs Jacob purse. He is quite pleased that he's able to recognize the brand. The purse is scuffed on the bottom and he guesses that it is second-hand. John is confident that Sherlock can probably name the model of the purse and tell the story of its previous owner.

This is his life now, he realizes. Knowing about women´s purses. 

John suddenly realizes that the silence in the flat means that the woman has finished her story and her crying. He looks up to see that she is blinking away fat, black tears and looking at the two of them in owlish silence. 

 “Well?” she snaps, red spots on her cheeks, “will you be able to apprehend the murderer?”

John looks down at the bundle of newspaper clippings in his hand. The story is about six months old and garnered no more attention than a byline on the BBC before Britain's attention was drawn to a money laundering scandal. Arthur Williams (47) had been walking home from his job the last Friday in October. He worked and owned a pawnshop (explains the expensive purse) together with his brother Frank Williams (45). Usually the two of them would stop by their pub on the way home to grab some beers, but on the evening of his death, Arthur Williams had been in a hurry and had skipped this ritual and cut through an alley on his way home. He looks at the picture of Arthur Williams, he´s a stocky man with blue eyes and a wobbly chin.

He had been shot at close range and had bled out before the paramedics arrived. His phone and wallet were missing and the police declared it a robbery gone wrong. The murder weapon was never found, but was identified as a military issue handgun. The police had made an appeal for witnesses and there is a list of five names of people who came forward. They all say heard the shot, but none of them could identify the shooter and only one could offer a vague description of the suspect. After six months of no new evidence or witnesses, the police had closed the case.

John has gotten used to people seeing 221B Baker Street as the last court of appeal when police investigations had failed to bring a satisfactory conclusion. Or find their missing pet/spouse (or spouses who absconded with a beloved pet). Though a mugging involving a gun is somewhat of a statistical anomaly, most armed robberies involve knives, he somehow doubts that an unidentified shooter and a six-month-old cold case rates high enough to catch Sherlock´s interest. 

He´s is therefor surprised when Sherlock casually asks, “none of the witnesses said that they saw the shooter clearly?” 

The woman nods mutely. "The police wasn´t able to identify the killer based on their descriptions. The witnesses were called in to look through photographs of known felons, but it didn´t yield any results. The police said there is nothing they can do."

“Oh, the police is woefully incompetent,” Sherlock says.

The room is silent again for a moment.

And then. “Wonderful. We'll take the case.” Sherlock declares and vaults himself out of his chair. He vanishes into his room and emerges two seconds later. "Come along, John!"

John watches him dash out of the living room door, leaving it wide open. He slowly rises and smiles at their client who is still staring wide-eyed at John.

“So, we will call you as soon as we know something,” John promises.

Sherlock, there is no other words for it, bounds down the streets with all the energy and excitement of an overly large puppy and John wonders if they've been listening to the same dreary tale. A man shot in an alley, nobody saw the murderer clearly and the police couldn’t find the murder weapon. John shrugs on his jacket and hurries after Sherlock. What has Sherlock deduced that made him so excited to take the case?

It's a chilly spring morning and John immediately regrets leaving his scarf at home. Sherlock is already doing that thing where he can make a cab appear within seconds. The backdoor is thrown open and Sherlock folds himself into the backseat and John follows, far less gracefully.

The cab driver turns to them, waiting for instructions, but Sherlock just waves him off. With a broad shrug the driver blinks his way into the traffic and turns down the street towards Knightsbridge. 

“So…” John starts.

“Oh, I´ve already solved it. Obviously” Sherlock says, preening. 

“Right” John says cautiously. "You solved it in ten minutes just from hearing to Ms. William´s story and reading the case files?"

"Four minutes, actually."

“You´re not very observant and you tend to pay far too much attention to superfluous things, like sentiments. We´ve been flat mates for a while now, and you´ve been totally hopeless in assisting me with the Work. I figured this case would be a good opportunity for me to see how much you have learned. You got a rare talent for asking just the precise sort of stupid questions.”

John wonders if there is a compliment in there somewhere.

"So, you want me to solve it." He asks. “Like…some sort of assessment?”

"Exactly."

John sighs. He hadn’t known he would be tested on his observational skills. He might have an Omega´s sharp sight, but his powers of observation falls woefully short of Sherlock Holme’s´. Still, some part of him is inscrutably eager to, somehow, prove his worth to Sherlock, to please him. John bitterly wonders if this is his Omega nature wagging its tail at Sherlock´s Alpha. 

"Oh, it will be fun. You´re already excited" Sherlock curls towards him and John feels his breath momentarily snag on his next words. He can smell the chilled wool from Sherlock´s coat, the muggy, faintly uretic scent of the London tube and the piquant fragrance that is uniquely Sherlock. He´s can almost feel his blush creep up along his neck to his ears and he tugs on the collar of his jacket to hide it.

"I well…."

"I have the utmost confidence in you," Sherlock proclaims, his voice is soft and ghosting over John´s cheek and making the hair on his arm prickle with desire. The cab suddenly feels far too confined. John shifts in his seat and inches away. John could never stand to disappoint anybody, he went all the way to Afghanistan and got himself shot just to prove his worth. He certainly can not disappoint Sherlock Holmes, who always laments to John on how he is surrounded by useless idiots. He ignores the pleasing way his stomach rolls at the prospect of proving himself and balls his hands into fists.

"Right." 

Sherlock waves the brown case file in John´s face until John snags it out of his hands.

"You got a destination in mind or we just driving around?" The driver asks gruffly.

Sherlock is bright-eyed and watching John expectantly. 

"Yes, right." John rattles off the address for the first witness. He spends the ride pretending to re-read the case-file and avoiding the heavy weight of Sherlock´s presence. 

Their first witness is a tall woman with long dark hair streaked with gray and twisted into two long braids that frames an oval face. John thinks that she must have been quite beautiful when she was younger. Today she is wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of oil stained jeans. John can pick out the distinct scent of motor oil and gasoline of an old car engine. She studies them both suspiciously for a long moment and when neither John nor Sherlock does anything to break the silence she says slowly.

"Yes?"

"Ms. Susan Clearwell?" John asks, hating himself for glancing at Sherlock, looking for any indication that he´s doing this correct. Sherlock smiles winningly and John is immediately suspicious. He can´t really tell if he´s smiling at John or Ms. Susan Clearwell.

He clears his throat.

"I am Doctor John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes" he makes a vague gesture to the taller man next to him. "We were, that is, I was wondering if we might ask you some questions about the night on October 28th when Arthur Williams was shot."

Susan Clearwell leans against the doorframe, looking thoughtful. "That was almost half a year ago, I thought the police closed that case."

"We are employed by his widow, Rose Williams, to look into it. See if we can find something the police missed." John hears Sherlock tut impatiently and he quickly skips to the next part. "So, would you please tell us what happened?"

Susan Clearwell sighs. She wipes her hands on a dirty rag and steps away from the doorway. "I´m working, but I suppose I can spare a few seconds. Come on through to the backyard."

They follow her through a narrow corridor to the yard where Susan Clearwell has a car engine spread out on old newspapers in various stages of being cleaned. 

John doesn't really expect Sherlock to remain in the backseat of this investigation and is surprised when he quietly ambles over to study the various engine parts. His hands are firmly in his pocket and he´s frowning at various bits of tools and machinery. John wonders if Sherlock has the know-how to reassemble an engine in his Mind Palace and thinks that he probably does.

"So, please tell me about the evening of the 28th."

Susan Clearwell keeps a cautionary glance at Sherlock as she says to John, "not much to tell" she sighs. "I was walking home from a friend´s place and I´m almost home when I hear a sharp bang, I didn´t realize at the time that it was a gunshot. A few seconds later a dark shape runs across the street just a few feet away from me and disappears into an alley."

John remains silent, waiting for more.

"That is it?" he asks, shifting his feet uncomfortably. He sneaks a look at Sherlock, but it´s impossible to read anything from his posture. How could he possibly have solved it? 

He turns back to Susan Clearwell and she nods. "That´s it. It was over in seconds. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman, if he or she was young or old. Sorry, but I can´t help you."

John doesn’t know how to feel about the results of their first interview. He writes a few notes in his moleskin, but it´s mostly for show. He keeps wondering if he should have asked more questions or if he didn´t ask the correct questions. Maybe he should have started the conversation by trying to deduce everything about Susan Clearwell. Sherlock tells the witnesses and suspects everything about them and they know there is no hiding anything from him. That he sees- observes- everything and exposes all the details of who they are, who they try to be and what they try to hide. 

Well, almost everything, John is grateful that Sherlock can´t deduces his DNA.

Sherlock remains silent all the way to the next person on witness list, slouched opposite John in the cab and idly scratching on his iPhone. John doesn’t know if the silence is a good sign or not and he hates how the uncertainty is making his skin itch.

The door opens to reveal a tired-looking woman with a screaming, blotchy, toddler on her hip. She glares at the two of them and John suspects they might just have interrupted the child´s dinnertime. The mother smells of sickly, stale sweat and vomit and the baby is covered in chunks of orange pulp. Both more and child gives him a scathing glare.

"What?" She bites with such venom that John stumbles over his introduction "Ms. Louise Warton? We want to ask you some questions regarding the night of October 28th when Arthur William was killed?"

"Why do you want to know?" she asks suspiciously, shifting the child on her hip. "You guys some sort of reporters?" She narrows her eyes. "You look familiar." She says to Sherlock who remains annoyingly quiet. 

"I am-" he starts, but she interrupts him with a exasperated sigh.

"Look, I don´t have time for this. I was walking home from the shops, right. I hear this gunshot and I did the smart thing. I ran away. I didn´t see anything or anybody. I didn´t even know there was anybody who had been killed before the police made that announcement asking for witnesses."

"Now, if I can just-" John starts, but Louis Warton simply continues, clearly eager to get this over with as soon as possible. "You´re interrupting Robert´s dinner time so I´d like you to leave."

"Well, pardon me, but I could just-" John has to jump back as the door slams in his face.

He turns with a grim sigh and sees Sherlock standing there, biting down on his fist. His shoulders are shaking.

"Not. A. Word." John says darkly and strides past him.

"You really solved it, just by looking at the reports and listening to Rose Williams´ story?" John asks dubiously as they walk the short distance to the third witness´s house.

"Easily" Sherlock confirms. 

John glances down at the folder still in his hands. He´s read the same files and newspaper clippings as Sherlock. He´d been in the same room and heard the same story from Rose Williams. 

Except, he really hasn´t. He may always be in the same room as Sherlock, but he´ll never see, observe, the world as Sherlock does and connect the dots as easily as Sherlock does. He will always try and catch up with Sherlock Holmes.

The third witness is a middle-aged man named Glen Reese. He opens the door and John has to take a step back and blink twice. Glen Reese is soft looking and everything about him is round: his stomach, his eyes, his face and it suddenly John feels like he´s staring into some twisted alternative universe of a John who never joined the Army. He´s dressed in a shirt and sweater west. He´s got grayish blonde hair and he´s smiling amiably at John and Sherlock, like they are old friends who just popped over for a visit.

Behind the overwhelming scent of cats John recognizes the chemical smell of Suppressants and John is aware of his stomach turning over slowly. John worries that Sherlock will notice that John has noticed something. John feels his smile fall from his face and for a moment he´s not sure what to replace it with. He finally settles on Captain John Watson.

Glen and John shares a look of recognition that is over within seconds, a silent agreement to not mention what they have in common. John dares a quick glance and wonders if Sherlock Holmes´s Alpha senses are able to recognize the Omega in front of him, but Sherlock is impassive. He´s not really looking at Mr. Reese, but he´s not meeting John´s eyes either. His gaze is fixed somewhere just over Mr. Reese´s shoulder. 

"Well, hello" Glen Reese offers cheerfully when the silence drags on past uncomfortable and into ridiculous. 

"Yes, hello." John clears his throat. Once. Twice. "I am Doctor John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. We are wondering if we might ask you some questions about October 28th of last year?"

"Well, of course" the man smiles pleasantly and opens the door wider. "Please, do come in. Would you like some tea?" 

Glen Reese´s sitting room is as round and soft as him with large, plush furniture and shaggy wall to-wall carpet. Sherlock looks ridiculous perched on the edge of the huge flower-pattern sofa. An orange cat is sniffing cautiously at the hem of his pants. "My husband is at work," Glen says, and John isn´t sure if it is meant to be a warning.

"Nothing really exciting happens to me," Glen Reese says enthusiastically "so of course I remember everything about it."

"Really?" John asks stiffly.

"Oh, yes." Glen says and pours tea into a teacup shaped like a cat, the curling tail serving as the handle. He smiles brightly and offers it to Sherlock who looks at it as if it might spring alive and assault him. 

"I was on my way home from the cat-shelter. I volunteer there two evenings and every other weekend" Glen scrunches up his face, thinking. "It was one of those really foggy London nights, you know." Glen takes a sip of his tea and looks to Sherlock. 

"Is there something amiss?" John chances another glance at the Alpha. His posture remains rigid, uncomfortable and his scent is unchanged.

"No." Sherlock says firmly and John forces a smile. Glen Reese returns it and continues. "When I heard the gunshot, well, it was just so loud, you know. It was all very frightening, so I ran away."

John nods along to Glen´s words, his lips set in a firm line.

"I was really scared for a moment. Then, this black shadow bounds out of the alley right in front of me. He crossed the street and ran off."

"What did he look like? Are you confident that it was a man?" John asks. He´s certain Sherlock will react if he asks Mr. Reese if he was able to smell him.

"Oh. I don´t know. Confident? Fairly certain, but keep in mind that most of what I saw was a black shape. It was one of those really foggy nights where I could hardly see where I was going. It was probably a man, you know, don´t they do the shooting while women uses poison? That is what the books and televisions show detectives always says."

John waits a beat, certain that Sherlock will respond to the ridiculousness of that statement, but the detective remains silent, his long, thin fingers wrapped around the spectacularly ridiculous cat-cup. 

"So, beyond a dark shape that is quite possibly a man, you can´t tell us anything else about the shooter?" John asks with dismay.

"No, no sorry, I can´t" Glen says, "I told the police this, I couldn’t even tell you if it was an old or a young person."

"Well, that was a waste of time," John mutters darkly when they are out on the street again. He lets out a sigh he didn´t even know he was holding, glad to shred Glen Reese and the doughy life he could have had.

Sherlock digs his hands into his pockets and shrugs noncommittally. John narrows his eyes, but he´s unable to garner any response from Sherlock. He had seemed excited, even gleeful at the beginning of this investigation. Now he seems almost subdued. After months of Sherlock ricocheting from high to low, John had thought that he was somewhat of an expert in reading Sherlock´s posture, but this broad shoulder rigidness is new one and John finds it bloody irritating. Is he disappointed in John´s lack of progress or does this have something to do with Glen Reese?

The afternoon crowd is trickling into the street. People on their way home from work. Pupils on their way back from school. John really loves these quiet walks with Sherlock, but he has to stop himself from doing something insane, like nudging his shoulder against the Alpha´s.

The fourth witness lives six houses down from Glen Reese. He answers the door dressed in a Manchester United football jersey, a ratty bathrobe and nothing else. At least John hopes he´s wearing boxers, but he´s not really keen to prove or disprove his suspicions. The stench that follows when he lifts an arm to push John away makes his eyes sting. Sometimes he hates his Omega nose.

He glares at the two of them with thinly veiled hatred. "I´m not buying anything" he tries to slam the door shut, but John jams his foot in the door.

"We´re not-" John starts, and grabs hold of the doorframe and pulls himself up. "I need to ask you some questions about the 28th of October last year."

The man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "What about it?" he grunts, "the police told me the case was done with."

"Just" John says, gritting his teeth against the stench "tell me what you saw."

Charles Waxfield sighs, his considerable weigh sagging.

"Look, as I told the police. I was on my way home from the pub when I heard this gunshot. A man comes running out of the alley and into the street. He´s dressed like, you know. A military man. He´s got a ski mask, the ones where you can only see his eyes. They were blue."

"What about height, weight? Did he say anything?"

Charles Waxfield seems to consider this for a moment and then adds "Well, he wasn´t as tall as your bloke there" he says and waves a hand at Sherlock. "But you know, more muscle. Stockier."

Charles Waxfield gives him a searching look "That it?"

John blinks at him. "What? No, I-". John hears sniggering in the background and finds it oddly comforting.

"What about-" 

"Look, I´ve told you all I know about the case. I´ve got things to do so you´d best be on your way." He squints at John again "whoever you are."

John strides down the steps and raise his hand at Sherlock "Not. A. Word."

Their fifth witness is a man named Dean Early. He´s a stocky academic and Sherlock and John catch him on his way out. He agrees to speak to them if they´ll walk him to the tube.

"I´m not sure what more I can say than what I said in the report." 

"Just, anything you can add" John says hopefully.

"Well, I heard the gunshot and a moment afterwards I saw a shape stumble past me. It happened so suddenly, he came out of nowhere- he almost knocked me over."

"So, you´re sure it´s a man?" 

"Well, as sure as I can be. It was difficult to see anything clearly that night."

 

They return to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock is now positively humming with energy, tapping his fingertips together and casting searching glances at John from his chair. Come on, John. Come on. It´s difficult not to draw the parallel to the puppy again, just waiting for John to catch up.

All of John´s notes, the newspaper clippings and the old police files are spread out across his desk. He´s read them so many times that the words and pictures are blurring together. He can´t keep his thoughts from returning to Glen Reese, not because he suspects him of the murder, but because he is the first male Omega John has met since he returned from the army. A part of him wants to talk to Reese. He feels like he knows him. He wants to swap stories about being an Omega, about all the little nuances and worries that he cannot talk to Doctor Fenway about or find an answers to in Finkle´s guide.

Another part of him simply wants to forget he ever met him. Glen Reese ran away from the sound of the gunshot, but John would have run straight towards it. He seems the stereotype Omega, everything John ran away from and it makes his skin crawl to know that he is in London, just a few blocks away.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and resumes reading the statements and his own scrawled notes. You see, but you don´t observe. John wishes he knew what he was meant to be observing or that he had a Mind Palace of his own where he had stored everything little detail about the case and the witnesses, so that he could take them out and re-examine them.

John dares a look at Sherlock. He has closed his eyes now and is resting his steepled fingertips just under his chin. He looks relaxed, but John knows his mind is running a million miles a minute while his feels like it´s slugging through syrup. Christ. Sherlock had solved it just by reading the police statements; he had not even needed to talk to the witnesses again. He had not observed the witnesses, so it was all about what they had said.

Only Charels Waxfield had given any sort of description of the suspect beyond a vague, dark shape. Even Glen Reese, who John knew had keen eyes, even in the dark, had not seen anything. So how did Charles Waxfield manage to give a description of the man´s eye color?

John slides out the file on the victim and stares at it. 

"Oh."

Sherlock pries open eyelid and glances at John. He remains silent, expectantly glancing at John. He looks….hopeful. As if John is about to prove that he is not one of the thousands of idiots Sherlock is always claiming smothering him with their unintelligent thoughts. It feels like this is some sort of final exam where John proves or disproves his worth. Is he about to show Sherlock that he can keep up with his pace? Bloody hell, he is sitting here, hoping to make him proud?

Sherlock moves across the room to stand behind him. John can feel his breath ghosting over the back of his neck. He feels his pulse quicken and he knows the answer is yes.

And the knowledge of the fact that Sherlock would be proud of him for solving it is making John´s throat feel unexpectantly dry. 

Christ. Even as medical doctor and an army surgeon, John has never been this nervous about presenting his conclusion. What will happen if he is wrong? Is Sherlock just going to ridicule him? And when did Sherlock´s potential mockery become a favorable outcome? 

John takes a deep breath and meets Sherlock´s gaze. His face is impassive, but there´s a spark in his eyes. Interested. Attentive. Hopeful. John´s suddenly busy with sitting up straight, trying to negotiate between his stupid urges to please Sherlock and ignoring his presence. He's spent his life with Alphas in his regiment and they had never made him feel like his conscience and emotions have suddenly become a minefield he had to navigate.

"Charles Waxfield is the murderer."

Sherlock´s face remains impassive and something twists in John´s chest. John hopes Sherlock can´t deduce his emotional state from his diluted pupils or his heart racing in his chest and he´s suddenly glad that Sherlock isn´t all that well versed in sentiment.

"He described the victim. The color of his eyes, his build. None of the other witnesses were able to describe the shooter. It was dark and particularly foggy night, yet Charles Waxfield is able to describe the color of the man´s eye."

Sherlock arches a brow at him, his mouth quirks into a smile. John has to suppress his explosive sigh of relief and keep his posture from slumping. This is ridiculous, he can´t keep walking on eggshells. 

"Not sure how we would prove it," John says "unless he´s stupid enough to still hang on to the murder weapon."

"I am positive he´s just that stupid." Sherlock says, sounding incredibly smug. "I already texted Lestrade." "I´d knew you´d get there eventually." Sherlock adds, "though I didn´t think it would take you this long." There is something about the carelessness in the tone of his voice, the way he sometimes regards John over the rim of his teacup that reminds John of a David Attenborough documentary about crocodiles and the way their eyes glints just over the surface of the water. The reptile Alpha eyes for the reptile Alpha mind. 

"Well. Right." John draws the words out slowly, he tries to keep his gaze on Sherlock and tries to assuage his nerves. Finkle´s guide had offered no advice on how to deal with this roller coaster of emotions. Sherlock drags him up on an euphoric high, leaves him trembling on the edge half-way between exhilarating and terrified. He wonders what it means.

He doesn´t find an answer and he carries the question with him the rest of the evening. He mulls it over during tea and he carries it with him to bed. It keeps him up at night, twisting and turning and rolling around in his head until it settles somewhere in the pits of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish to thank everyone for their support and kudos.
> 
> This chapter did not really tie together as well as I might have wished, but I hope it is not too cumbersome. 
> 
> If anyone wishes to help me with providing feedbacks/being a beta-reader, please contact me.


	6. Chapter 6

**This chapter has been beated by the wonderful[kgratz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kgratz) who has been an invaluable help in sorting out inconsistencies and things that needed to be clearer. I owe her my deepest gratitude. **

 

 

_"The Alpha is almost exclusively portrayed as the assertive, dominant, and protective partner in the Alpha-Omega relationship. The most famous of such portrayals is in the long-running daytime series, "Leadworth Way" (1990-2003), where the main Omega protagonist “Philip” continuously needs to be consoled and rescued by his Alpha Mate “Alexander”. Philip seems unable to act without the approval of his Mate and lives submissively by his whims and, sometimes erratic, desires._

_The show has been criticized for its inaccurate portrayal of the Alpha/Omega relationship, most vehemently by Alexander Lee Finkle who wrote that "There is no such thing as a Strong/weak dynamic in the Alpha/Omega relationship, this is a social construct supported by incorrect portrayals of the relationships, such as in "Leadworth Way"_ (Lee Finkle, A., A Critical Analysis of the Alpha/Omega Relationship in Modern Media. A/O Press: 2009)

 

**Chapter 6.**

 

When Glen Reese walks into his office at the surgery five days later, John knows he should have been prepared for it. He isn't, of course, because Sherlock is on the cusp of one of his epic sulks that is making John feel despairing and helpless in equal measures. He wonders when he became so tuned in to Sherlock that he cannot even separate his own emotions.

Glen Reese is dressed in a blue checked shirt and a cardigan that John knows he has in his own wardrobe. He is smiling, as he always seems to be, his cheeks dimpled and flushed, and he gives a little wave as John rolls away from his desk to face him.

“Mr. Reese,” John schools his expression, he's become an expert in hiding his emotions these days. “How can I help you?”

“I hope you don't mind me tracking you down like this,” Glen Reese says cheerfully as he settles down in the visitor’s plastic chair. “I just thought we might talk. Just the two of us.”

“Talk,” John wets his lips. A few days ago he wanted to talk to Glen Reese himself, but now that the Omega is in his office he’s suddenly lost all the desire to. He dislikes how stereotypically Omega Glen Reese is, as if he’s eager to conform to society’s opinion about their gender. He’s everything John hates about being an Omega.

“Well, I’ve never met another male Omega,” Glen Reese says, casually throwing out the term John has been avoiding all of his life. He has to stop himself from physically flinching and instead offers a brittle grin.

“We’re rare,” John allows.

“Doctor Fenway - you do know Doctor Fenway, Doctor Watson?”

“Of course,” John smiles thinly, “I don’t think there’s an Alpha or…you know, Omega in Europe who doesn’t. I assume you have sessions with him as well?”

“Oh yes,” Glen Reese nods. “I used to go frequently when I first presented as an Omega when I was seventeen and when I bonded with my Mate, less so in later years. I guess I’m just not as interesting.”

John steals a glance at the clock on the wall and Glen Reese suddenly reaches out and wraps his sausage fingers around John’s wrist. His hand is clammy and heavy, and John quickly slides his hand free from his grasp and folds his hands in his lap to keep them safe.

“I know you’re busy at work, Doctor Watson, but I was hoping you might stop by my house sometime and we could….you know. I’m sure there’s things we can learn from each other.” He’s looking at John with large, hopeful eyes.

“I…” John starts, not really sure how he wants to answer. He really doesn’t want to return to Glen Reese’s doughy, cat-filled apartment with its overly large, flowery furniture and fluffy carpets.

“Or,” Glen Reese adds quickly, probably sensing his hesitation “some place else, if that makes you more comfortable. I’ve read that some Omegas feel uncomfortable in the homes of other Alphas.”

“It’s not that,” John says, trying for causal. “There’s a pub in Kensington called the Queen’s Arms. Do you know it?”

“I’m sure I can find it with Google maps,” Glen says. “I have to check with my Mate first, but does 8 pm work for you?”

John simply nods and he doesn’t realize until Glen Reese has left his office that he’s been holding his breath. He rubs his eyes, wiping them clear of grit and sleep. This is really the last thing he needs on his already filled plate.

Things have been, well, not exactly weird back in the flat, but he is suddenly hyper-aware of Sherlock’s presence. He lies awake in bed, and he knows the sound of Sherlock’s barefooted footsteps across the carpets and he recognizes the sound of his steps on the stairwell when Sherlock comes and goes. His scent seems sharper and John carries it with him like a perfume all day, and when it fades towards the end of a long workday, John misses it. Privately, John thinks he’s going insane. This cannot be a normal reaction to have to a flat mate.

 

He picks up four extra hours at the clinic and texts Sherlock to let him know he’s going to be home late. Sherlock doesn’t respond and John hopes it isn’t because he’s still prone on the sofa. He knows he’s avoiding going home, but he also knows that if he returns to Baker Street first, Sherlock will be able to deduce where he is going, who he is meeting, and John knows he won’t be able to rationalize it as a friendly drink with a witness they met on a case. At best, Sherlock will be curious and want to follow, at worst he’ll work out from their interactions that John is an Omega. He doesn’t want Sherlock anywhere near the idea that John is an Omega.

The pub is fairly well crowded for 8pm on a Thursday, but Glen Reese has managed to find a corner booth and he is already waiting for John, two pints on the table in front of him. He waves enthusiastically at John and John slowly makes his way across the room and slides in opposite him.

“Cheers,” he says, grabbing the pint and raising it.

“Cheers.”

“So... how long have you and Mr. Holmes been together?”

If John weren’t so used to everybody making that assumption, he’s certain he would have sprayed the beer all over the table.

“We’re not together,” John says. “I’m not with an Alpha, I’ve never needed an Alpha, and I never will!”

At his words, something changes in Glen’s expression. He’s suddenly pale and he looks surprised, almost frightened. “You’re not Bonded?” he hisses. “But it’s dangerous to live without an Alpha.”

Finkle’s Omega Guide and Doctor Fenway have always said much the same. Generally, Alphas respect a Bonded Omega and will seldom contest a claim. An Omega who is not Bonded is considered fair game, and any Alpha can force a Bond.

“I can handle myself,” John replies and hates the dubious look that Glen Reese sends him from over the rim of his drink.

“I’m so glad I met my Alpha early,” Glen quietly confesses, “I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He cares for me, he provides financial stability. He takes care of me and he loves me. I mean, he’s very protective…” Glen half-rises in his seat, and John sees his face brightening as he spots somebody in the crowd and he does a little half-wave again. John twists in his seat, but he’s unable to see with whom Glen is communicating.

“He didn’t want me coming all the way out here on my own, so - “

John feels a chill run down his spine and he grips the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles whiten. “Did you tell him who you were meeting?”

“Oh,” Glen says quickly, raising both hands in the universal appeasing gesture. “I just told him I was meeting an old friend from school.” Glen smiles, and John thinks it looks genuine.

“I mean, you’re the first, you know, that I’ve met. The Guide and Fenway say how we keep to ourselves, you know, keep a low profile. I bet you’ve not even told your parents. But I’m not judging,” Glen pauses and takes a sip of his beer. “When I came out to my family, shite…” he chuckles nervously, “my father almost blew a gasket. My mother was a lot more understanding.”

John’s not sure what to say and he is glad that Glen just keeps rattling on and not letting him get a word in. “I think she always suspected there was something different about me. She always said I was such a docile child, you know, never climbing trees or getting into fights, more occupied with studying and getting good grades. Did you know that Doctor Fenway thinks that Omegas are so diligent and studious because it makes them more attractive as potential mates?”

John is really regretting meeting with Glen Reese. He does not need to have all his suspicions about his own life spelled out like this, he gets enough of that from Sherlock who’s even deduced why he’s now taking his coffee with extra milk and sugar.

“Well, I’m just fine. I don’t need anyone taking care of me.”

“I must confess that I was rather surprised to learn you’ve been in the Army. Wasn’t that terribly frightening? And now you’re running around solving crimes with that Alpha, it all seems very dangerous.”

“Did you know right away that, well - he’s an Alpha?” John asks.

Glen Reese’s green eyes widen in disbelief. “He’s not as obvious as the other Alphas I’ve met, but there is something about his eyes, you know.”

John thinks about Sherlock’s pale eyes that he just a few days ago compared to a retile’s. a few days ago had compared to a reptile’s. There is no detail, no matter how insignificant to the untrained eye that escapes the scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes. Some things may take him a little while to puzzle together, certainly anything connected with emotions and sentiment, but he does not miss a thing and he almost read John like an open book.

He rolls his shoulders, feeling the ache of a long day at the office making itself known with a familiar ache of pain. He should not have met with Glen Reese after the end of a long workday. He’s too tired to deal with all of these thoughts and emotions that are battling for control and defying explanation and definition.

“But the two of you, you work together and…live together, and you’ve never - does he know that you’re an Omega?” Glen Reese asks carefully, as his gaze flickers from John’s to search for his Alpha’s.

“No,” John replies calmly, “and he’s not going to find out. You know there is a reason why we don’t go around announcing it.”

He’s not really sure how Sherlock would react to finding out his new flatmate is an Omega. He’s not really one to be concerned with social conventions and he’s never expressed any opinion whatsoever on the Alpha/Omega dynamic. But John doesn’t want to test Sherlock’s indifference.

Glen Reese fiddles with his beer coaster.

John clears his throat, “So, how did you and your husband, Mate, meet?”

Glen visibly brightens and smiles somewhat wistfully.

“It probably sounds really cliché, but I had my first Heat, I didn’t even know what was going on, and then these Alphas…” Glen tugs on the edge of his sleeves to cover his wrists and lowers his eyes to stare at the table.

John forces a thin smile. He recognizes the situation all too well and wonders if all Omegas learn about their nature through such a harsh rite.

“Anyways, this Alpha swoops in and saves me like a knight in shining armor,” Glen Reese grins crookedly, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks, “and we spent my first Heat together, and we Bonded and Mated a few days later.”

“Just like that?” John hopes Glen Reese doesn’t recognize the uncertainty in his voice. He can’t really imagine tying himself for the rest of his life to swith somebody he’s just known for a few days. But maybe this is how the Bond really works, this undeniable attraction and connection between and an Alpha and an Omega. The academic literature is always vague when it tries to describe it and the majority of popular media always represents it as a devastating love at first sight, where the Omega clings to the Alpha, unable to function without him. John can’t really picture Sherlock involved in a clingy sort of relationship, or any sort of relationship with anything but his Work and the Game.

“Well, he was so kind and gentle and protective - I just,” Glen Reese leans forward and lowers his voice. John follows his lead and leans slightly over the table. When he gets close enough, Glen reaches over and gently touches his arm and John instinctively ually snatches it away.

“The way he smells, it’s intoxicating. Even now, I feel, I mean, he’s just across the room and I… I just want to make him happy. If he isn’t happy, how can I be happy?”

John considers the ridiculous urge he had to prove his worth to Sherlock, to solve the murder on his own. He remembers the way Sherlock’s scent wafted over him in the confines of the cab and how he still keeps searching for Sherlock’s smile, his approval.

And sometimes, sometimes John thinks that Sherlock is looking at him as well. It’s not a new sensation. It’s one he’s been facing almost every day - sometimes several times a day. It is most prominent when Sherlock does something unexpected, or rather unexpected to everyone who doesn’t know Sherlock, and it makes John smile. He wonders who smiled for Sherlock before John came along. The sudden thought makes something cold and hard twist in his chest. He knows it’s irrational to feel jealous when he’s pointed out so many times that they aren’t a couple. Sherlock gives John this look, like he can’t really believe that John isn’t a figment of his imagination, and he doesn’t want to share this experience with anybody else. He’s never felt the need to search for, to confirm, this possessive connection with other Alphas.

_Christ._

He drags a hand across his face, trying to wake up and wishing he wase anywhere else. John can admit that most of the feelings he has about Sherlock are scrambled with a plethora of emotions he can’t easily identify. Most of all, he suspects that what he really feels is some sort of absurd, admiring infatuation. An infatuation that gets tangled up with this heart-stopping fear when Sherlock does something dangerously insane and reckless to prove how smart he is. When this happens, he feels torn between shivery and tense. He worries that he’s about to lose the ability of rational thought and coherent speech.

“Oh well,” his voice is raw and he hides his hands under the table again, knotting his fingers together, desperate for something to occupy them with, “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Glen says, and Christ, he sounds so bloody sincere. He pets John’s arm, his hand solid, heavy, and warm through the fabric of John’s jacket and John smiles humorlessly. “It’s all fine.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without my Alpha,” Glen Reese says, with a dreamy expression John hasn’t seen since Harry’siet’s teenage infatuation with that American actress.

“I’m fine,” John says as he sand slides his hands from out under the table and pushes himself up. “But, it’s been a long day and I’d better be off home.”

Glen Reese rises quickly, nodding and smiling. “Of course, of course. It must be tiresome work, being a doctor and a consulting detective.” John gives him a tight, cold nod.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Reese,” he says, calmly and politely, because no matter how uncomfortable the evening has been, he’s still British.

“Please, call me Glen. Perhaps we can meet again?” Glen Reese asks hopefully.

“Perhaps,” John agrees, knowing very well that plans to try to avoid Glen Reese and everything he reminds him for as long as possible, hopefully for the rest of his life.

John leaves money for the beer on the table and nods again to Glen Reese, before he slowly makes his way through the throng of people who have filled up the pub. There is a pleasant and calm buzz in the crowd and the sounds and smells pull John back to reality. He’ll go back to 221B Baker Street, maybe text Lestrade for a case if Sherlock still hasn’t moved from the sofa. He’ll take a shower, go to bed, and wake up tomorrow and return to being John Watson, former army doctor and current assistant to the world’s only consulting detective.

 

The clouds have been rolling in over London all day: grey, heavy, and ominous, and John steps outside into the chilly night and feels the first droplets of a heavy rain shower trickle down his neck. In the distance he hears the soft rumbling of thunder and his leg throbs with a sudden, dull ache. It doesn’t seem like this storm will pass London.

It’s been a long day at the clinic and an exhausting evening with Glen Reese and though he’s used to running after Sherlock all over London, this is a different kind of weariness. John is so used to avoiding thinking about the fact he’s an Omega and everything that implies that he feels jet-lagged, like he’s been traveling from a place where he isn’t an Omega to the one where he is and his mind hasn’t really been able to catch up.

He thinks about Glen Reese and the beatific glow on his face as he talked about life with his Alpha. His mind can’t help but supply the helpful memory of Sherlock chiding him for the adjectives he uses in his blog and making it all sound like a romantic adventure. John wonders what other people see when he looks at Sherlock, and what Sherlock sees when he catches John’s gaze.

_Bugger._

John tugs up the collar of his jacket to escape the rain and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He’s not taken many steps away from the pub when a hand suddenly grabs his arm and spins him around.

It’s been almost twenty years, but John remembers the small, beady eyes, the broad shoulders, and the harsh, acrid scent that surges over him. Realization hits him like a ton of bricks and for a moment his vision dances in a sickening array of bright colors and he worries that he is about to pass out. Then he feels something slither through him, something gelid, and dark, and tranquil, before it settles down in the pits of his stomach, knowing that this is where it belongs, and it makes itself at home.

“Hello, hello,” the man says, his voice low and tight and his face set in cold lines. “Your scent isn’t as strong, but it’s still very, very delicious.” He licks his lips and steps closer.

John’s jaw works, but there is nothing to say. His body goes still, but his mind is already going through his options. The other guy might be taller than John, but he’s not been kind to his body. He’s lost some of the firmness of his physique to alcohol and bad diet. His grip on John’s arm is firm, but not strong, and John’s no longer a skinny university student. John knows there is more strength in his elbow than in his fist. He knows that the neck, the nose, and the temple are the vulnerable spots. He knows that if he presses his foot down hard on the man’s thigh he stands a good chance of immobilizing him, if only for a moment. But he doesn’t need more than a moment.

“Let. Me. Go,” John growls. There will be no pleading or begging this time. He won’t need to.

The man opens his mouth. He closes it. He narrows his eyes and digs his digits harder into John’s arm. He looks a bit stunned; it’s obvious that he’s not expecting this reaction. John yanks his arm free and takes a step back, balling his hands into fists.

“You’ve got three seconds to walk away.”

The man raises a hand and John mentally prepares himself for the fight.

“Is there something going on?” Glen Reese appears behind the man, and he looks wide-eyed with worry. John watches as something passes between Glen Reese and the Alpha in front of him. His stomach rolls and clenches and he lets out an exasperated laugh. What are the odds?

“It’s fine,” John says, because he doesn’t really want Glen Reese to worry about John and his Alpha.

John takes another two, then three steps backward before he turns around and walks down the street to the main road. He throws his hand out and is grateful when a cab arrives within seconds and he doesn’t release his breath until the car door slams behind him and he’s leaning against the leather seats. He can hear the soft pitter-patter of rain on the cab window. The thunder rolls above him.

 

It’s a short cab ride to Baker Street and John makes sure to tip the driver handsomely for his inconvenience of taking a passenger on a five minute drive. He pauses for a moment outside the front door; he’s suddenly having trouble catching his breath. He needs to calm down before he enters the flat or Sherlock will know something is wrong because there is no hiding anything from the scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes. He counts to ten and reaches thirty before he feels confident enough to push open the door and step inside.

John moves slowly up the seventeen steps to flat B. He takes another short pause just outside the door before he pushes it open. He hangs his jacket and coat up on the rack in the corridor and moves into the living room.

Sherlock is lying on the sofa with his back to the room and the world. His dark mop of hair is an unruly mess and he’s dressed only in his velvety dressing gown. He smells stale, unwashed, and slightly of bitter nicotine. He’s the same as when John left him this morning and he wonders with a small surge of irritation if Sherlock has been in this position the entire day. John stifles a groan. He wants to brush his teeth, to shower, to clean away this tedious day and then go to bed and forget about it.

“Sherlock,” John sighs in defeat. “Have you eaten or had anything to drink today?”

There’s no response and John moves carefully across the room. He wonders if Sherlock is asleep and gently places a hand on his shoulder. It feels like touching something electric, the jolt runs up his arm and sends goosebumps scattering down his neck and spine.

Sherlock grabs his arm and John really wishes people would stop touching him. The Alpha’s pupils are blown wide, making his eyes seem almost black from slit-to-slit. Something twists in John’s chest at the expression on Sherlock’s face: all open, and wide, and pale as if John’s just hurt him.

“Bloody hell,” John grumbles and pulls back.

“Something happened,” Sherlock declares, going from sleepy to wide-awake in a heartbeat. He swings his feet from down from the sofa and reaches for John again. John remains still, letting Sherlock grip his shoulders and hold him in place as his dark gaze scours John. John can see the calculation clearly in Sherlock’s eyes, can see him flicking through the files of his mental cabinet.

“I’m fine Sherlock. Just a long day at work.”

“You went to a pub.”

“Well, yes. I sent you a text and all - “

“One that’s far away from work, but not too far away from the apartment - you intended to walk home, but the rain - “

And Sherlock does the oddest thing, he runs his hand through the still damp strands of John’s hair and John has to steel himself to not arch up into the touch like a cat.

“I just met with an old mate.”

“He did something to upset you.” Sherlock curves down towards John until they are suddenly eye to eye, and he locks his gaze with John’s, and John suddenly realizes that they are close enough to kiss and a part of him really hopes they will. He can feel his pulse increasing and the sound of his heart beating echoes through in his head. This amazing, impossible man is so close to him that he’s stealing John’s breath, his words, his entire world.

John tries very hard not to smile, but it’s difficult when they are almost pressed together like old lovers and Sherlock is making him feel all warm, and calm, and glowy and so he gives in and tilts his head a little and -

Suddenly Sherlock’s mobile springs to life with a loud shrill and Sherlock leaps away from him to grab it.

“Finally!” Sherlock crows and flicks his fingers rapidly across the screen. It takes John a second to regain his footing and catch his breath.

“I - what?”

“Lestrade has a case he thinks I might find interesting.” Sherlock twirls about the room, still tapping away avidly on his phone.

“Right,” John wets his lips. “Well, yes,” he clears his throat again, “I’m going to call it a night.”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively and John knows he’s lucky to even get that much of a response from him. He drags himself slowly up the steps to his room and into the bathroom. He shrugs off his clothes and steps into the shower, the water warm enough to make him shiver. Even over the sound of the water, John can hear Sherlock talking to Lestrade, asking for more details.

John spends a full minute brushing his teeth, avoiding his own reflection, then he pulls on his pajamas and tucks himself under the duvet. The thunderstorm breaks and throws heavy rain against his window. John lies awake and watches the flashes of lightning play in the grey skies and for the first time since he moved into 221B the pain from his leg keeps him awake into the early hours of Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to each and every one of you who took the time to read my story and drop me a few words! I also wish to make friends with people in the johnlock/fanfiction community so please find me on tumblr under friolerofiction.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter has been edited by the lovely and wonderful kgratz.
> 
> The only major change is the name of the twins, that hopefully makes the story less confusing.

**Disclaimer:** The crime is taken from Gosho Aoyama’´s manga series _Detective Conan_ (issue number 20) Sogakukan:1994.

 **Please note:**  Warnings for discussion of suicide and self mutilation (cutting) in connection with a case.

 

         “Jacob often told me that the current societal views of the Bonded Alpha/Omega Mates is an outdated notion that Hollywood has romanticized for the benefit of its audience. _‘There is nothing romantic or sweet about an Alpha/Omega relationship.  There is no love at first sight; there is no such thing as ‘true mates’. The Omegas are conquests, they are only fit to be carriers of the genetic progeny of the Alpha. The only time an Alpha is ever truly invested in an Omega is when it is carrying its offspring.”_ (Fenway, G., M.D. _Case Study of an Alpha_.  A/O Press: 2000. 4 th edition)

 

 

**Chapter 7.**

 

There is the seasonal outbreak of flu, and John spends most of his time at the clinic tending to crying children and worried parents.  When he’s not working, he is spending an unusual amount of time at the pub, sometimes with mates from work, but more often than not he is alone. He’s not drinking because he is too aware of the addictive tendencies in his family, but it’s nice to get out and meet people and talk idly about the last football match or the latest shenanigans of MPs.  John also tells himself he’s not actively avoiding Sherlock.  Occasionally he even manages to convince himself it’s true.

 

         The atmosphere is uncomfortable at 221B.  It has been strained ever since Moriarty held John hostage at the pool, and the balance of power of their relationship has shifted even more in Sherlock’s favor. John is always hyper aware of Sherlock’s temper now, as if he’s gained an internal Geiger counter that measures Sherlock’s moods.  John has lived in close proximity with plenty of men, even with Alphas, almost all of his life, but he’s never been so in tune with them that he could tell exactly when they needed something to drink or when their left shoulder was itching. Sometimes Sherlock’s scent derails his train of thought and makes him falter in his steps. When that happens, he suddenly begins tripping and stumbling all over the flat and he has to resort to blaming his leg so as to not divulge the real reason.

 

         John is not the only one who is moving tensely around in the flat. They collide when they try to pass each other in the corridor and are forced to resort to the little dance where they both move left and then right, before they both stop and wait for the other to pass. They bump elbows and shoulders more often when they try to move around each other in the kitchen, and each touch makes John’s skin prickle and his breath hitch in his throat. Sherlock and he have fallen out of their little habits and norms they had perfected over the last few months of living and working together.

        

         If Sherlock has sensed anything of this connection between them, he is guarding his response well. He spends most of his time wrapped up in cataloging and memorizing various forms of animal hairs and their corresponding breeds of cats and dogs.  John wishes Sherlock would say something, even if it’s a scathing remark about John’s pub habits or a vicious vivisection of the apparent return of John’s psychosomatic limp.  It is so unusual of Sherlock not to remark on the elephant in the flat, that John wonders if he is ignoring it for the sake of their friendship.  Perhaps Sherlock thinks the two them can continue to get along famously if they continue to ignore John’s enamored feelings for his flatmate.

 

         John desperately wants things to go back to the way they were before, before Glen Reese made him reevaluate everything he thought he knew about himself and his relationship with Sherlock Holmes; before Sherlock had carded his fingers through John’s hair and distilled in John the sudden realization that he desperately wanted Sherlock’s touch. He had never realized that a single, fleeting, and careless caress could be so desperately, devastatingly addictive.

 

         It feels like they are becalmed and waiting for the winds to push them forward. But the days turn into weeks and they remain unable to break this uncomfortable stalemate where neither one is willing to make the first move or suggest a change of course. In the end though, there is an East Wind that forces them into action.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

         John surveys the room, taking in the posters of boy bands and movie stars plastered on every inch of the walls and even on the ceiling.  The flat reminds John of Harriet’s room before she packed it away to move to university. He wonders why the occupants of the flat felt it necessary to duplicate the posters and pictures, it seems rather excessive and makes the apartment feel cramped and a lot like a teenagegirl’s bedroom and not a living room.  It seems to be a reoccurring theme though, because there are two identical mugs on two identical coasters on the table in front of the television. Along the edge of the table is a row of pieces of clear packing tape, all cut into equal lengths, and several flat cardboard boxes are leaning against the sofa.

 

         In one corner a young woman is sobbing hysterically into a handkerchief.  John places her age somewhere in the last years of her twenties though her ponytail makes her seem a lot younger.  Her shoulders are shaking and her voice is filled with snot and tears as she tries to tell something to the female constable who is idly patting her shoulder, though she looks unfamiliar with the practice of offering consolation. In another, identical, chair sits a pale-faced man with heavy rimmed glasses, his shoulders are slumped and he’s twisting his hands around his orange tie.

 

         John takes note of all of this in five seconds, and knows that in the same amount of time, Sherlock Holmes has deduced hundreds, if not thousands of little things about the apartment, the constables, the crime scene technicians working the scene, the man and the woman in the corner, and her dead twin sister in the bathroom.

 

         “This is clearly a suicide,” Anderson says exasperatedly, and twists his mouth in a sneer, “why is _\- he -_ here?” He waves a pen in Sherlock’s direction.

 

         Sherlock does not even bother to respond and John knows that the detective is not paying any attention to anybody in the room because he is Working the Scene. Sherlock has his compact magnifying glass out and is meticulously examining the main door. He orders one of the crime scene photographers over and points at the door, ordering several close-ups of the peephole. After several minutes, he starts to creep along the bookcases and the television bench and sweeps the lens over the rows of books and DVDs.

 

         “Please be quiet, Anderson.” John sighs and stuffs his hands into his pockets.  Anderson rolls his eyes again and disappears with a little tutting sound.

 

         Seeing Sherlock in his element is always almost a sort of surreal experience - how he can take a crime scene, or any other scene, and dissect all of the little nuances and secrets that ordinary people dismiss and lay them bare. Like he had laid John bare the first time they met with a single question: _“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_  

 

         John can sense Sherlock’s growing excitement and fascination with the case. Sherlock is in his element, absorbed and engaged in the world, if only for the moment. It is as if they have returned normalcy, the feeling is doing wonders for John’s frazzled nerves and he realizes that it might be considered inappropriate (by everyone but Sherlock) to be happily grinning in the middle of a suicide investigation.

 

         Sherlock picks up a DVD and studies it; it’s some sort of music video of one of the boy bands that is decorating the walls.  He picks up another DVD, then a third and a fourth, he ‘hmms’ at them before throwing them casually to the floor.  Then he’s attacking the collection of books and magazines with the same vigor. He selects a book, then another, studying them briefly before letting them fall to the floor.

 

         “Hey, you ever heard about preserving the crime scene?” DI Lestrade comments, rather halfheartedly John thinks. Sherlock just repeats his ‘hmm’ sound again and then marches across the living room to the narrow hallway that leads to the bedroom.  John trails after him, because, well, that is what John has been doing ever since first he chased Sherlock across London.

 

         Sherlock strides into a small bedroom, twin beds pushed to opposite sides of the room. Both the beds are covered in the same blue bedspread and on the bedside table there are a pair of similar grey lamps and identical pictures of the twins and their parents. The only difference between the two sides of the room is that on the right hand table there is an additional picture of one of the twins and the man crying in the living room.

 

         The detective continues his meticulous, if rather seemingly haphazard, investigation of the room, yanking open one of the wardrobes and flicking through the rows of clothes. He pulls out a pair of red, high-heeled shoes and studies them for a second before throwing them over his shoulder. He scampers over to the left side wardrobe and repeats the process, throwing out clothes and shoes.

 

         “You think the content of their wardrobe is connected to the suicide?” John asks casually, trying to provoke a response from Sherlock that will grant him some insight into the detective’s thought process.

 

         “Don’t be absurd, John, this isn’t a suicide,” Sherlock scoffs.  Before John can ask any other questions Sherlock strides off again, this time stopping outside a green door.  A little ceramic heart hangs on a nail in the middle.

 

         “This is where she was found?”

 

         “Yes,” DI Lestrade says, falling into place next to Sherlock who crouches down and runs his thin fingers along the edge of the door.  He pulls back for a second, tilting his head this way and that before he takes out his magnifying glass and examines the round door knob.

 

         Sherlock is about to grab the door handle, when DI Lestrade grabs his elbow. “Hold on, you’ve got to wear these.” He throws a pair of blue nitrile gloves at him and a pair to John who snaps them on with practiced ease.

 

         Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he pulls on the gloves before he proceeds to carefully push the bathroom door open.

 

         The door slides slowly open and they step inside to a small, green bathroom that smells strongly of lavender soap and chemicals.  Crime scenes always make John despair of having a heightened sense of smell. The scents are overwhelming and make John stumble for a second, and he quickly covers it with a small cough. The room smells so sharply of chlorine that John finds his nose wrinkling and eyes watering. The odor evokes the memory of the night with Moriarty at the pool, and it takes him longer than he would like to regain control of his senses and push the images back into the coffin where they belong.

 

         The inside of the bathroom door is completely covered with packing tape, the layer is thick, and in some places the tape crosses over several times.  The edges of the window are also taped shut and a couple of empty rolls of tape lie on the edge of the bath tub, a couple have fallen to the floor. Whoever sealed this room shut didn’t want to leave anything to circumstance.

 

         John inches forward, not with caution, but with respect for the half-naked woman who lies curled over the edge of the bathtub.  She’s dressed in a t-shirt and, John suspects, but cannot quite confirm, nothing else. Tips of her long hair are bobbing in the red water, one hand is submerged and the other hand is awkwardly clutching a packing knife.  Her bare legs are tucked under her, and if not for the bloodied water, it would look as if she were just testing to see if the water were warm enough before she took her bath.

 

         Sherlock stops and surveys the room before his pale eyes settle on the woman in the bathtub. “Hmmm.  And nothing has been moved?” Sherlock asks.

 

         “Nothing,” DI Lestrade confirms. “She’s been identified as Ann Lewis, twin sister of Annabell Lewis.  That’d be the crying woman in the living room.”

 

         Sherlock drawls out another, “Hmm.” And DI Lestrade looks at John, waiting for John to translate it from Sherlockian to plain English. He probably could, John thinks, the first “hmm” meant “interesting” and the second meant “don’t bother me, I’m thinking.”  Sherlock moves carefully about the crime scene and kneels next to a couple of bottles of cleaning liquids, he nudges one over until he can read the label.

 

         “ And she said they had to force the door open?”

 

         “Yes, it was taped shut - from the inside,” DI Lestrade answers.

 

         Sherlock nods slowly. “Was she alone when she discovered the victim?”

 

         “No, Ann Lewis’s fiancé, Toby Henricks was with her.  He confirms Ms. Annabell Lewis’ story so far.  They called and knocked on the door, but in the end they had to force it open. They called an ambulance as soon as they saw what had happened, but all the ambulance personnel could do was confirm that she was dead and then they called it in to the Yard.”

 

         John knows what comes next, he is so familiar with Sherlock’s routine at a crime scene that he steps forward without a word and crouches next to the woman, careful not to touch the body or the bathtub.  With a kindness Sherlock would berate him for being unnecessary with the dead, John turns her head and examines the face of the dead woman.  Ann Lewis is a mirror image of her twin sister, even down to the haircut and the smudge of makeup around her closed eyes. With gentle and caring hands he extracts her hand from the water, he carefully twists the arm around to expose the pale skin of the woman’s wrist.  A series of long slits mar her skin.  By themselves the cuts aren’t fatal, but combined they would have caused profound bleeding.

 

         “These doesn’t look like usual hesitation marks,” John says as he thoughtfully examines the cuts on her arm. “All the cuts are recent, I would even say they were made at the same time because there is no scarring or scabs that suggest the cuts have healed. Suicide victims don’t usually hesitate several times in act.  Most of the scars run diagonally and not horizontally.  Most suicide victims cut horizontally, which is not as effective. Also, you rarely see suicides of this kind in adults, not with lethal pharmaceuticals easily available.”

 

         “But you’d still call it a suicide?” DI Lestrade asks, but John doesn’t answer, he looks to Sherlock. He’s not paying attention to what John is telling DI Lestrade, his eyes are locked on a couple of white, plastic bottles on the floor by the sink.  He uses his magnifying glass to carefully roll the bottles over so he can examine the labels.

 

         “Sherlock?” John inquires gently and Sherlock looks up.  His gaze catches John’s and John imagines, if only for a second, that there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes.  Then again, John has been known to imagine quite a number of things recently.

 

         Sherlock moves over and kneels next to John by the bathtub.

 

         “The wounds on her wrists are curious,” John says again and Sherlock nods his acknowledgment.

 

         “That’s not the only thing that’s curious about this scene,” Sherlock adds with a knowing glint in his eyes. “Look at the blood splatter on the edges of the bathtub.”

 

         John looks helplessly at the droplets of blood.

 

         “So…” DI Lestrade ventures, clasping his hands behind his back, “not suicide? But the door and window were taped shut, there’s no way for anybody to get out of the room.”

 

         “No” Sherlock says, rising so abruptly he almost knocks John over.  “Definitely not suicide,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears out of the bathroom. John pulls off his gloves with a small shrug at DI Lestrade and follows after Sherlock.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

         Annabell Lewis and Toby Henricks are sitting across from each other in an interview room at New Scotland Yard. One of the on duty solicitors has been called and is sitting next to them, making small notes on a legal pad. Annabell Lewis is clutching a plastic cup of steaming tea, and Toby Henricks is still anxiously fiddling with his tie.

 

         “Tell me what happened,” Sherlock demands, “and leave out no detail, no matter how insignificant you think it is.”

 

         Annabell Lewis looks up, startled, and blinks away a couple of tears.  She glances at her solicitor who gives an encouraging nod.

 

         “I’d just come home from my run.” She’s still dressed in an expensive looking tracksuit, with black sneakers and matching headband. “I was going to take a shower before tackling the rest of the packing.”

 

         “You’re moving out?” John asks gently and ignores Sherlock’s indignant scoffs. Annabell Lewis shakes her head and wipes her tears on a piece of tissue.  “No-no… Ann is… was, she’s…” she trails off, and glances across the table at Toby Henricks who takes a deep, wet breath.

 

         “Ah, Ann and I we… were moving in together.  We were going to be married soon.”

 

         “My condolences,” John says softly before Sherlock can voice his negative opinions on weddings and marriages.

 

         “So, yeah. I came over to help with the packing. Annabell let me in and said she had just gotten back from her run, but couldn’t get a response from Ann in the bathroom.  We tried knocking on the bathroom door, trying to get her to open it.”  He pauses and swallows and John can see his eyes are shiny with tears.

 

         “The door was locked and we tried to force it open.  In the end we had to ram it open.  And we found… Ann was…” his voice drifts off into sobs, his hands knotting into his tie and his gaze locking on the table in front of him.

 

         “You saw the room,” Annabell Lewis says softly.  “I’m surprised we even managed to get the door open with all that tape.”

 

         “Had Ann Lewis exhibited any signs of depression?”

 

         Annabell Lewis looks over to her lawyer again, and she gives another nod.

 

         “She was looking forward to moving in with her fiancé, but, you know, she was also slightly anxious about it because Ann and I have always been really close, you see, we’ve always lived together. Done everything together.”

 

         Toby Henricks looks up sharply at Annabell Lewis words and John gets the feeling that he doesn’t really agree with her statement.  He doesn’t say anything though, just resumes his fiddling with his tie.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

         “We’ve confirmed that all the fingerprints on the tape on the door and window belong to the deceased,” DI Lestrade quotes from a report, half an hour later when they are gathered in his office.

 

         “But why would somebody who was going to commit suicide by slicing her wrists tape the door shut? That seems really excessive, why not just lock it?” DI Lestrade asks.

 

         “First sensible thing you’ve said all night,” Sherlock comments dryly.

 

         “It’s probably because of these,” Anderson declares.  He’s standing in the doorway, holding up a clear evidence bag that contains the two bottles of cleaning liquids from the bathroom.  “These are disinfectants, one is based on chloride, the other on acid. If you mix them together you’ll get a deadly chlorine gas,” Anderson preens.

 

         “Don’t be stupid - stupider than usual,” Sherlock sneers, a weak response by his standard, “they are both chlorine based.”

 

         Anderson, however, doesn’t lose his triumphant smirk.  “I imagine she planned to take her own life by chlorine gas poisoning, so she sealed the room shut with tape to stop the gas from leaking out. However, when she tried to make the gas she realized that she’d bought the wrong kinds of liquids and thus she had to use the knife.”

 

         “How could anybody who planned to commit suicide by chlorine gas poisoning manage to buy the wrong products?” Sherlock challenges.

 

         “She was obviously distraught,” Anderson reasons, his grin growing by the second. “Look, the receipt proves that she’s the one who paid for them.”  He shows them the receipt in a plastic evidence bag.  Sherlock snatches it out of his hands and peers at it. John can read Ann Lewis’ name scribbled on the bottom of the receipt.

 

         “But she cut herself several times,” John says.

 

         “In suicide victims it’s not unusual to find hesitation marks.” Anderson replies.

 

         “True,” John concedes, “but they’re not usually crisscrossed.”

 

         Anderson puts on the mother of all smug grins, “That only proves how distraught she was.”

 

         “Oh, Anderson, Anderson,” Sherlock chants in that sing-song voice he knows grates on every inch of Anderson’s self-control.  The reaction is immediate, Anderson’s cheeks redden and he balls his hands into fists, but before he can retaliate, Sherlock continues, “Do you imbeciles understand even the most fundamental principles of blood splatter analysis?”

 

         “What do you mean, Sherlock?” DI Lestrade intervenes in his best _let’s all try to be behave like adults_ voice.

 

         Sherlock spreads the photographs from the crime scene out across the table and he taps the enlarged one picture of the bathtub.  “Look,” he demands and taps one of the enlarged pictures of the bathtub.

 

         They all look. For a long time, nobody says a word.

 

         Sherlock emits an expasperated highly dramatic sigh that would have impressed the most petulant teenage girl. “God, why must I be surrounded by idiots” Sherlock laments.

 

         “Hey,” John says mildly, but Sherlock barges on unheeding of the reprimand.

 

         “The blood splatters only go to the edge of the bathtub, there’s none on the top of the rim. Why is the top clean?”

 

         “Well…” DI Lestrade tries.

 

         “This sort of pattern would only come from somebody else cutting her wrist.  Like this.  Come along, John.”

 

         Sherlock walks over to John and gently nudges him to kneel by the seat of a chair, and John’s Omega instinct kicks in and he falls to his knees without protest. John ducks his chin, hiding the annoying blush that creeps across his cheeks, quickly cursing his biology. “This chair is the edge of the bathtub.”  Sherlock grabs John’s arm and drapes it over the edge. He sits down behind John, and wraps his right arm around John’s torso, trapping John against the edge of the chair and Sherlock’s chest. John holds his breath against Sherlock’s overwhelming presence.  He can feel Sherlock’s soft, moist breath against his cheek and the back of his neck, and his warm, thin fingers wrap around John’s wrist as Sherlock guides his hand over the edge of the chair. It sends spools of warmth to his groin and he quickly bites the inside of his cheek to not sigh in pleasure at Sherlock’s touch.

_Christ._

 

         “If I had a knife, I’d cut his wrist like this,” Sherlock continues, unheeding of John’s response to his presence. Sherlock makes a horizontal slice over John’s wrist.

 

         “If I’ve not done this before, it might take a couple of tries to cut the skin because it’s an awkward angle to cut from.  My body, my elbow would block the spray of blood and thus leave the blood splatter marks we see.”

 

         “And how would he manage that with a struggling victim?” Anderson sneers.

        

         “Because the victim was drugged, probably by the tea in the cup in front of the telly. The tox screen will confirm it.” Sherlock rises from the floor and John pushes himself up with slightly more effort.

 

         “Or it could be on a roll of tape that kept the edge of the bathtub clean,” Anderson seems to regain his confidence, because his upper lip curls in a snarl. “Obviously the tape roll was placed there and it fell into the bathtub.  When we drain it, we’ll find it."

 

         “So, are we back to this being a suicide?” DI Lestrade asks.

 

         “No,” Sherlock says crisply, “it’s murder.”

 

         “Well, where is your evidence?” Anderson sneers.

 

         Sherlock collapses into DI Lestrade’s chair, arms and legs splayed in a way that cannot possible be comfortable, and groans dramatically.  “I am surrounded by idiots.  You see,” he laments, “but you do not observe.”  John clasps his hands at the small of his back, he recognizes Sherlock’s tone as his “what would you all do without me, pay attention as I solve this crime” voice.

 

         “Why don’t you tell us what we’re not observing then,” DI Lestrade grumbles.  Sherlock flings a hand over his forehead and says something into the skin of his hand before he takes a deep, steadying sigh and pushes himself up.

 

         “There is two of everything in that flat.  Two of every poster, two of every book, two of every DVD, the cups are similar, the bedspreads are similar, even the clothes and shoes are similar.  These two twins grew up doing everything exactly the same, liking the same boy bands and movie stars, dressing the same, eating the same - and recently falling for the same guy.  The only thing that is unique in the flat is the tracksuit Annabell Lewis is wearing. That is new, probably even bought today. The pants, the t-shirt, the jacket, the shoes; they’re all the latest model, everything matching in colors and fashion, even the headband.  Annabell Lewis needed to make both her sister and Toby Henricks believe that she would not be at home that evening to create an alibi.”

 

         Sherlock pauses for a moment and continues, “The photograph, the photograph of Toby Henricks is with Annabell Lewis, not Ann Lewis.  I imagine that Toby Henricks used to date the other older sister before getting involved with Ann Lewis.”

 

         “So, Ann Lewis took her life out of guilt for getting involved with her sister’s boyfriend,” Anderson challenges.

 

         Sherlock dismisses him with a single arch of his eyebrow and continues.  “No. That is why Annabell Lewis murdered her sister.”  Sherlock turns with another flourish to gesture to the photographs of the bathroom door.

 

         “The room was never taped shut, Annabell Lewis simply ensured that she was the one to twist the door handle open, thus giving the impression that the door was sealed shut. She needed a witness for this and that is why she waited for Toby Henricks to arrive, they had to find Ann Lewis together.”

 

         “But all the fingerprints on the tape were Ann Lewis’s,” Anderson challenges.

 

         “Of course,” Sherlock says in the same tone of voice he uses when he calls Anderson an idiot.

 

         “Ann Lewis was packing, she was moving out.  She was measuring out the tape in even lengths and hanging them on the edge of the table so that the packing would go faster.  I imagine the twins had had some sort of quarrel on the topic and she wanted to get out of the house faster.”

 

         “This sounds very plausible…” DI Lestrade begins, “but where is your evidence?”

 

         Sherlock strolls over to the table and fishes out a picture of the front door.  The door is white and looks exactly like one of those hotel doors with a peephole in it.  He places the picture in front of DI Lestrade and looks at him expectantly. DI Lestrade stares at the picture and then at Sherlock.

 

         “Bloody hell…” Sherlock groans and points a sharp finger at a small smudge on the door. “Blood. There.” Sherlock points at a seemingly innocent dark stain just above the peephole.  “You will test it and confirm that it belongs to the victim.”

 

         “Annabell Lewis could have injured herself and…” Anderson starts.

 

         “Wrong!” Sherlock declares with glee, clasping his hands together.  John thinks there may be nothing more wonderful in the world than watching Sherlock as he is now, opening their eyes to everything they aren’t seeing, or rather, observing.  For a moment they’ll see the world as Sherlock sees it, thousands of points of information interacting and telling a story.

 

         “Annabell Lewis was waiting for Toby Henricks, so she looked through the peephole to make sure it was him at the door.”

 

         “But there was no blood on Annabell – “

        

         “Wrong again!” Sherlock cries. “You will test her headband and find a spot of Annabell Lewis’ blood there.”

 

         “Anderson, go and collect Annabell Lewis’s headband and test it,” DI Lestrade orders.

 

         “But - “

 

         “Now!”

 

         Anderson scowls, but ambles out the door.

 

         “But, why tape the door shut?” John asks.

 

         “Because the original plan was to stage the suicide by poisoning Annabell Lewis by chlorine gas, but for some reason Ann Lewis had ignored Annabell Lewis’s instructions on buying the chlorine liquids Thus Annabell Lewis had to improvise, which resulted in all the wounds on Ann Lewis’s wrists.”

 

         “That’s brilliant, Sherlock.”

 

         Sherlock turns to John and gives him one of his small, almost shy smiles.  It’s the smile that always makes John feel kind of queasy and dizzy. Sherlock may dazzle the entire room with his brilliant deductions and observations, but he always seeks out John, as if ensuring that John is really paying attention to him. As if John could ever have eyes for anyone else with Sherlock in the room.

 

         “If you confront her with the evidence, I’ve no doubt she’ll confess.”

 

         DI Lestrade does not look entirely convinced, but he strides off to the interrogation room.

 

         “Should we stay and wait for the interrogation to finish?” John asks, but Sherlock simply snorts, “Boring.”

 

         “Thai, then?” John asks with amusement.

 

         They walk home in silence and John can blame the traffic of London’s pedestrians when he leans slightly against his flatmate.  Sherlock has his hands deep into the pockets of his Belstaff coat, his scarf loosened at his neck. Now and again John steals a sideways glance at Sherlock and commits to memory the way he looks: his dark lashes sweeping shadows against his sharp cheeks, the cupid’s bow of his mouth. John spends the rest of the walk back to Baker Street trying not to imagine what it would feel like to press his lips against that mouth.

 

         This feeling, John realizes, is something new  He has no frame of reference for the way Sherlock makes him feel - it falls woefully short of how he ever felt about Ann Marge Sandrige.  He’s almost losing control and when he stops himself, just before he reaches out and wraps Sherlock’s hand in his, it’s with equal parts astonished relief and disappointment.

 

         He wonders how long he can realistically keep this up, how long until Sherlock can no longer ignore it and gives his little speech again about how he’s flattered, but married to his Work.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

         Two days later they get a message from DI Lestrade, who informs them that Annabell Lewis has confessed to the murder of her sister.

 

         “It’s all a bit sad,” John says in a quiet voice from behind his newspaper.  “She planned to stage her own sister’s suicide in jealousy over a belief that her sister stole her former lover.  I think the sister bought the incorrect cleaning solutions to keep Annabell Lewis from accidentally harming herself.  Despite their disagreement, she still loved her sister.”

 

         “Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side, it’s simply a string of pointless transmission between neurons . It’s an evolutionary cul-de-sac, just like the male Omega.  Have you ever heard of anything as useless?  There is really no need for fertile males when there are an abundance of fertile females to carry on the species for those who are so inclined to produce progeny.”

 

         Sherlock says all this carelessly, as if he’s just not single handedly brought ruin to John’s life.

 

         John is grateful that the newspaper is hiding his expression; because he’s certain that his dismay must read so clearly that even Sherlock would understand what has brought it on. He feels as though he’s just been shot again, the bullet cutting right through him, icy cold and then burning hot.

 

         “Are you serious?” John is just managing to keep his voice from breaking, but the newspaper rattles in his hands.

 

         “Of course I am,” Sherlock says. He’s yet to look up from his computer and keeps staring at the screen, fingers quickly flying over the keyboard. “You know I am right, John, as always. How many crimes of passion have you read about and have we investigated?  People always think that the greatest motivation for murder is money or hate, but they’re mistaken.  It is almost always about love.  Imagined love, lost love, desired love.  Love drives people to act without reason and logic.  It makes people stupid, pathetic, and _useless_. Pure, cold reason is what I hold above all things.”

 

         John’s stomach churns and he feels like he’s going to throw up and he forces himself to think about things like tea with Mrs. Hudson, beans on dry toast, and naming all the bones in the hand. There.  Better. He’s calm again.

 

         But Sherlock just continues on, ripping John apart.  “Caring,” Sherlock spits out as if it’s a great insult, and John thinks dizzily, that to Sherlock it really is, “is not an advantage.”

 

         “Do you,” John swallows and tries again, clawing like a drowning man trying to reach the surface, “do you really think that?”

 

         “I never say anything I do not mean, John,” comes Sherlock’s casual response. He looks up from his computer and his smile is a nasty thing.  “Lestrade is not asking the right questions,” Sherlock seems to address this to his mobile, obviously considering the topic finished.

 

         There’s a moment of silence that stretches on and on and John feels like he’s walking on a tightrope, struggling desperately to maintain his balance.  He flexes his fingers; he hadn’t even realized how hard he’s been clutching the newspaper.  John waits and lets himself wait a moment longer before he dares a glance at Sherlock from over the top of the newspaper.  Sherlock is still staring at his computer screen, oblivious to John’s gaze.

 

         When Sherlock is working a case, he is brilliant, mesmerizing, and ravishing. But John isn’t just enamored with Sherlock’s dazzling mind, otherwise his affections would have fizzled out long ago. It is the quiet moments: walking together in the streets, when they share an amused, private joke on a crime scene when Anderson has just said something ridiculous.  Most of all he likes the privacy of 221B, the domestic peace between them after a case, when they trade jibes and jokes like a practiced game of tennis, neither of them ever missing the ball, until now.

 

         John’s eyes slide over Sherlock’s long and slender fingers, sees the tendons in Sherlock’s hands and the thin, white wrists that disappear under the stiff fabric of his shirt. Two days ago he could barely keep from himself from reaching out and touching that hand; and now, he’s a doctor, he’s a soldier who’s been in warzones, he’s intimately familiar with human suffering, but he’s never before felt this, like Sherlock’s just pushed him to the edge of a cliff, and left him standing there, teetering.

 

_It’s fine.  It’s all fine._

 

         Maybe, John thinks faintly, this is for the best, at least now he _knows_. There is no more wondering, no more reasons to linger in hope.  The realization stings at first, but accepting the sting and its truth means that he can move on, though first he wants to move out. He can’t stay here in this flat with Sherlock and walk through this emotional minefield every day. This is the final push he needs to break out of the stalemate he has with this Alpha.

 

         John gets his breathing under control, he takes a sip from his cold tea, he eats his toast and jam, he finishes reading the sports section.  He mentally prepares himself for getting up, taking a shower, getting dressed, and asking Sarah for an extra shift at the clinic.

 

         Eventually the silence is broken by the sound of Sherlock viciously attacking the laptop, and John dares another glance at the detective.  He’s still hunched over his computer and reaches for his phone as it gives a slight chirp.

 

         “Oh, fantastic!” Sherlock exclaims with obvious delight in his voice.  He jumps up from his chair and scratches rapidly at his iPhone.

 

         John can’t really conceal his lack of curiosity, but asks mildly, “Hmm?” Sherlock, however, is too engaged in his phone to notice.

 

         “From the start I thought that Annabell Lewis was too insipid to come up with this fake suicide idea of chlorine gas, the taped room, the discovery of the victim. The botched slicing of the wrists seems far more likely to have been concocted by her. I told Lestrade to ask her how she came up with the plan.”

 

         Sherlock turns to John fully now and John doesn’t need his Omega nose to read the excitement and pleasure that is rolling off Sherlock.  Sherlock is smiling, beaming, and genuine.  He’s not seen Sherlock this happy in weeks.

 

         “Annabell Lewis says she got the idea from an internet forum.  That there was this guy who told her how to make it look like a suicide with taping the room shut and mixing the cleaning liquids.”

 

         “The internet?” John asks faintly.

 

         “A site called _The Science of Crime._  Lestrade says that the site doesn’t exist anymore, but that they can trace down the last IP address from Annabell Lewis’ computer history.”

 

         Sherlock is already across the room now to John’s laptop, clicking away at the keyboard.

 

         John watches him with growing apprehension.  He recognizes the sudden glee in Sherlock’s movements, the way his mouth is quirking in delight. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach, as Sherlock’s smile grows a little bit wider. He knows there’s only one man who can entice this response.

 

         “Oh, John, this is wonderful!”

 

         John thought he’d just about regained control of his wits, but what comes out of his mouth is a half strangled, “Moriarty?”

 

         “Most assuredly!” Sherlock exclaims, fingers dancing over the keyboard. “Finally, he’s showing himself again.” Sherlock turns to John and grins delightedly.

 

         “The Game is on again, John!” Then he winks and scurries off to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and all your kudos, words of support and encouragement
> 
> I'd love to get in touch with more johnlock shippers and writers, so please feel free to contact me here or on tumblr where you can find me as friolerofiction


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe an immense debt to my beta reader, kgratz. She's amazingly insightful, helps me weed out all the stupid mistakes, and aids me with working out the main plot.

“After the Omega has experienced its first Heat, they find themselves with the choice of hiding their true gender or battling the stigma of being an Omega in modern society. Modern pharmaceuticals have made the former easier, as the media has made the latter increasingly more difficult. Very few seem willing to draw parallels between the current attitudes about Omegas and those regarding homosexuals in the early 1900s, which in some countries carried, and still carries to this day, severe legal ramification, ostracization. It may be prudent to remember the World Health Organization did not declassify homosexuality as a mental disorder until 1990, and in China not until 2001 and that many countries still practices the death penalty for homosexuality. One may wonder how long it will take before it becomes acceptable to live openly as an Omega.” (Lee, Finkle A. _An Omega´s Guide_. 4th edition. Free Press: 2009)

 

**Chapter 8.**

“John is hiding a secret from me.”

Sherlock Holmes has been quiet for a while and the sudden change of topic makes Detective Inspector Lestrade look up from the crime scene photographs. Sherlock is standing rigidly by the large map of London that is pinned up on the wall, red dots indicating the location of crime scenes and incidents relating to Moriarty. Sherlock’s hands are clasped at the small of his back, his hands still and his expression hidden. They’ve been at this for almost a week now and they are no closer to figuring out Moriarty’s whereabouts, his associates, or his next move. The information on the computer from the Lewis case had led them to an abandoned warehouse that was bleached clean of any potential clues, and the owner sits tightlipped in prison.

Sherlock’s mood has grown progressively darker as their lack of information on Moriarty becomes increasingly evident. He’s terse, aggressive, and latches onto clues that have him holed up in his kitchen-cum-laboratory for hours. Lestrade is surprised to learn that Sherlock has made room for somebody other than Moriarty in his mind, though not at all that it would be John Watson.

“Well, a man is entitled to his privacy,” Lestrade says reasonably, only to have Sherlock snort derisively. Lestrade sighs and drops the photographs to his desk. This is going to be one of those conversations where Lestrade will try and explain social conventions to Sherlock who will, inevitably, point out their many flaws, how irrational and illogical they are all, and steamroll all over Lestrade’s attempt at explaining them.

Lestrade girds himself for battle.

He tries his the first approach: to make Sherlock see things from John’s point of view. “Well, not long ago he was kidnapped by a madman, had a semtex vest filled with explosives strapped to his chest, and now this same madman has just made himself known again. Maybe it’s dredged up memories from his time in the army, maybe he’s more rattled than he’d care to admit, maybe he needs some time to…. compartmentalize.”

Sherlock turns and looks at Lestrade, his pale eyes flickering through his mental catalogue of acceptable human behavior after having been kidnapped, threatened, and almost having been blown to pieces. Then he factors in John; he frowns, he scoffs, and he shakes his head.

“No, that’s not it, John thrives on danger, he’s an adrenaline junky. He likes danger.”

Lestrade sees that Sherlock clutching his hands so tightly that is knuckles are turning white.

Interesting, Lestrade thinks.

John often does things that Lestrade would categorize as falling outside of normal conventions, such as being flatmates with Sherlock Holmes. But he had never thought that the former army doctor, with his horrible jumpers and cardigans, could baffle the Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, in such a way that he’s managing to distract him from Moriarty.

“He’ll say he has errands to run,” Sherlock continues, “but he always returns empty handed. When I pointed out the obvious flaw in his story, he changed it and said he’d been visiting with friends from university, other times he’s tried to tell me that he was actually going to the pub, having lunch with colleagues from work.” He says the last with a tone of voice that makes it obvious that John is being incredibly irrational and disruptive with his terrible lunch habits.

“And you don’t think that’s plausible? John’s a very likable fellow, he probably has loads of mates.”

“He’s going to the pub, but he’s not drinking. At first I thought maybe he was meeting with his sister, but John’s not that frustrated or angry when he returns. Is he going to pubs to meet friends, but not sharing a pint with them? No, John would join in with the camaraderie if he were actually meeting up with friends. He’s stuck on that kind of silly social convention. He’s not playing rugby, because he’s not unusually tired or excited when he returns home and there’s no mud on the hems of his trousers or the soles of his shoes. He’s not seeing a woman, he’s not shown any interest in anybody since his brief fling with that Sarah woman.”

Sherlock pauses and adds thoughtfully, “There doesn’t seem to be any pattern or logic to the times when he goes out. Sometimes he’s just unusually late home from work, sometimes he disappears just after breakfast and will, seemingly, walk around aimlessly for hours.”

“Christ, Sherlock. Are you spying on John? You can’t do that.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, good – “ Lestrade starts, only to be interrupted by Sherlock saying in his don’t-be-obvious voice, “I have the Homeless Network spying on him.”

“Just, no - Sherlock,” Lestrade groans, “you can’t have people follow John around – “

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, the usual hint of childish whinge in his voice that he uses when he’s trying to wear somebody into submission. It’s at these times that it’s difficult for Lestrade to remember that Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be a dominating and charismatic Alpha.

“It’s not what friends do, all right - they don’t spy on each other.”

“But they lie to each other?”

Lestrade sighs. ”All right, I get your point, but - “

“But who is he meeting?” Sherlock is now pacing back and forth in front of the map, rattling of his deductions without pause. “Perhaps a former medical colleague? But John left King’s College early and completed the majority of his training in the military and most of his associates from the army are still overseas. He’s not lecturing or teaching, there’d be no reason to lie about that. He’s not connected to the College in any professional capacity. No he’s meeting somebody there and he doesn’t want me to know who it is.”

“Your Homeless Network told you all of this?” Lestrade asks, thankful for his ability to mask the obvious admiration in his voice.

“They followed him to King’s College, but they don’t know who he’s meeting with there. A homeless person can hide in plain in sight in the middle of London, but they are generally quite visible in an upscale university where everybody dresses in suits.” Sherlock looks at Lestrade expectantly, waiting for him to tell him where the fault in his logic is. Or at least try to, because there’s never any fault in Sherlock’s logic, no matter how askew it might seem from the understanding of normal people.

Lestrade risks a random shot at the obvious. “Have you tried asking him?”

“Of course!” Sherlock exclaims, raking his hands through his hair and glaring at Lestrade. “How else would I know that he’s lying? He keeps telling me everything is fine, but he’s avoiding me and I don’t know why. We haven’t had any arguments. I’ve been exceedingly considerate and made sure not to use the microwave for experiments involving body parts or organic tissue and I flipped over his mattress after the unfortunate hedgehog incident. I asked him why he was upset and he said he wasn’t upset.”

“Well… ” Lestrade says slowly, bidding for time. There are so many things wrong with that statement he just doesn’t know where to start.

“I am sure John will tell you when he’s ready,” he offers, knowing it’s no consolation for the detective that needs to know everything about everybody. Immediately. And usually it’s things people prefer to keep secret.

“People are entitled to their privacy, even John,” Lestrade says evenly.

“This isn’t about privacy,” Sherlock says with something of a sneer. “This is about lying.”

“You’re not being very reasonable,” Lestrade tries, knowing that asking for Sherlock to be reasonable is as about as useful as demanding the mountain come to Mohammed. Sherlock’s exasperation is broadcasting as clearly as a shout.

“Maybe he’s doing it for a lark,” Lestrade offers, only half jokingly. Sherlock looks sharply at Lestrade. He’s obviously not considered this avenue of approach.

“What do you mean, doing it for a lark?”

“Well, you know, maybe he’s trying to pull one over on you? See how great your deductive skills really are?”

Sherlock snorts. “Don’t be preposterous.”

Thankfully, the door to his office is pushed open and John ambles in, smiling thinly and carrying three cups of coffee and a brown paper bag. Lestrade is immensely grateful for the timely interruption. He lifts his cup in a mock toast to John, who simply smiles back at him. Lestrade glances at Sherlock and he cannot help but notice that Sherlock gives John a studying, slightly suspicious look, as if he’s never seen John before. Sherlock then returns to staring at the map, his back an angry T.

“Here we go,” John says pleasantly and unpacks the paper bag to reveal several sandwiches and three bags of crisps.

“Cheers mate,” Lestrades replies and digs into his belated lunch. Sherlock grabs the tallest cup of coffee, but ignores the sandwiches.

“You didn’t even have any breakfast,” John says.

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replies and resumes ignoring John.

Lestrade is intimately familiar with this song and dance between John and Sherlock. Sherlock will refuse, though Lestrade is beginning to suspect that it is only a token defense. John will continue to needle him, urging him to have a bite of this or that. It may take hours, but John is as unrelenting as Sherlock is stubborn. In the end, John will drag Sherlock to the negotiation table, they’ll sling sharp-witted insults at each other, though never barbed ones, there will be rolling of eyes, arched brows, and much scuffing of feet. In the end they’ll hash out some sort of agreement. Sherlock will take a bite or something, and John will look immensely pleased with himself.

But not this time, John only shrugs at Sherlock and spends more time than is warranted in studying his plain paper cup. You don’t need to be a Detective Inspector to sense the tension between Sherlock and John, as if they’re two schoolyard enemies who have suddenly been forced to work together on a group project and Lestrade suddenly finds himself in the undesirable position of group leader and intermediary. It’s obvious that there’s been some sort of falling out and Lestrade suspects that Sherlock doesn’t realize it and that John is upset that Sherlock doesn’t recognize that they have, in fact, had a falling out. He shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Sherlock’s concerns.

Bloody hell, Lestrade laments. Could these two be any more married? He dreads having to try and explain to Sherlock the logic behind someone saying they are not upset, they are upset, but that they are upset because you don’t realize it.

“So, any progress?” John asks, sipping his coffee while walking over to Lestrade, and studying the crime scene photographs.

Both Lestrade and John look to Sherlock who is still seemingly engrossed in studying the map. He doesn’t say anything. Sherlock is clearly not here right now, occupied with following the lines of his own deductions, though Lestrade can’t say if he’s occupied with trying to figure out John or the map.

John moves stiffly to stand behind Sherlock, keeping more space between himself and the detective than he normally would.

“So, these are the points of interest?” John says in the tone of voice that Lestrade recognizes as one who is cautiously trying to placate somebody. Sherlock, of course, doesn’t realize it because he’s probably never tried to, nor bothered, to reconcile with anybody.

Sherlock half turns and he does that thing with his eyes that means he’s thinking that John is being particularly obtuse. But he remains silent, and that is almost worse than if he’d said something scathing about John’s lack of observational skills or dwindling intellect. A silent Sherlock is by far the worst kind of Sherlock. The only other time Sherlock was like this was when he was contemplating the benefits of cocaine.

John forces a smile at DI Lestrade, who is suddenly keenly interested in studying the condition of his shoes. Whatever has happened between these two, it needs to be resolved quickly.

Lestrade is immensely grateful when the two of them pack up to leave two hours later. John’s smiles are more strained and Sherlock looks like he’s holding back a thunderstorm. As they make for the door, Lestrade grabs Sherlock’s arm and says quietly and tightly. “All right, so you were, in fact, right about John.”

Sherlock, for once, doesn’t look pleased with Lestrade conceding his point.

“You need to really ask him what’s up, and not take no for an answer. Just… be honest,” Lestrade advices.

“I’m always frank,” Sherlock says.

“Right,” DI Lestrade replies, “just ask John to tell you why he’s really upset and try to, you know, listen to him.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outside the Yard Sherlock is quick to hail a taxi and fold himself into the backseat. John just has time to throw himself in before the taxi pulls out into the late afternoon traffic. Sherlock is already swiping away on his mobile and continuing to ignore John. Sherlock may not be the most emotionally aware person, but he’s doing a bang-up job of continuing his game of ignore John, a game John used to play with Harry when they were kids until eventually one of them would forfeit the game by recognizing the presence of the other, but Sherlock is continuing to play long after John has surrendered.

John sighs and sinks into the leather seats. He wonders how obvious they were in DI Lestrade’s office. If things have been slightly off tilt between them before, they are now in different orbits. John hates it. It grates on him that this is all his fault. He let himself be carried away by his emotions when Sherlock had warned him from their first meeting that he is married to his Work and Not Interested.

He thinks about Sherlock’s voice tinged with disgust when he spoke about sentiment, love, and male Omegas. The memory makes the skin on the back of his neck prickle with a sudden chill. John desperately wants to reach out and touch Sherlock, to close the distance between them, even if it is just pressing his arm against Sherlock’s. It hurts not to touch and it sends shivers down his arms. John is forced to stuff his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They return to 221B and John has just hung up his jacket when Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders, spins him around, and all but slams him into the wall. Despite all his military training, he’s caught off guard and suddenly finds himself pinned to the wall by Sherlock’s arms and gaze.

“What is wrong?” Sherlock demands, crowding in on John. His voice is low and tight, but his eyes are wide and stormy. His scent is curling off him, thick, and heavy, and sweet; and John thinks it might be the most enticing perfume he’s ever smelled. Suddenly it’s difficult to breathe.

“Wrong?” John asks faintly, trying to resist his body’s response to Sherlock’s demanding presence. Sherlock leans in closer and his grip tightens, not painfully, but possessive and authoritative in a way John really wishes he didn’t find arousing. He shifts his posture somewhat, trying to move his hips away from Sherlock’s before this conversation takes an embarrassing turn.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock growls, clutching John’s arms to keep him pinned to the spot. He leans in even closer and John forces his eyes shut for a moment, to will away the soft caress of Sherlock’s curls against his forehead. His pulse is beating rapidly against his throat and his palms are uncomfortably warm and slick and he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he balls them into fists to stop himself from doing something insane like touching Sherlock. For a wild moment he thinks Sherlock is pressing his nose against the crook of his neck, but the overwhelming slew of lust, want, hope is making it difficult to focus on anything but breathing and keeping his hands firmly to himself.

Sherlock is silent for a long moment. John can feel the hitch of his pulse take him into panic. Is Sherlock able to smell his reaction? Is there is some part of his Alpha instincts that is able to detect the tremors of desire that have almost brought John to his knees? Christ, Sherlock doesn’t even need his Alpha instincts to realize what is going on; John’s rapid heart rate, his pupils, the sweat beading on his forehead are advertising his emotions loud and clear.

“There is something wrong. You are upset about something, but you are not just upset because I didn’t realize you’re upset. You’re not that pedestrian, despite what Lestrade thinks.”

John blinks, because, what? He’s didn’t see this one coming, not DI Lestrade’s deduction or Sherlock’s own conclusions. He knows he’s been keeping his distance and trying to avoid Sherlock, but that’s only to protect himself, to stop himself from pressing up against Sherlock like a cat in heat.

John swallows, trying to find his voice, even though he’s still currently lacking the words to formulate a response.

“Is this about Moriarty?” Sherlock asks, skipping through probable causes as he usually does when he’s deducing someone. His eyes narrow, and the storm in them is suddenly hard.

“Moriarty?” John asks stupidly.

“Are you upset that he’s back? Are you afraid?” Sherlock runs his gaze over John, searching for clues in John’s bleary eyes.

“Upset? What! No,” John says and straightens his posture somewhat. He suddenly feels slightly offended that Sherlock would think that John is frightened. He’s a soldier, for Christ’s sake. John’s not afraid of Moriarty; he’s worried about the potential loss off innocent lives, of course, he’s also somewhat worried about how far Sherlock will push the Game to prove how much cleverer than Moriarty he is.

Sherlock seems pleased with John’s response and pulls back slightly, his grip finally loosening, but his hands still remain on John’s arms, warm and firm, and the sensation makes John dizzy. He swallows. He licks his lips.

Sherlock may not be particularly skilled in reading emotions, but John can practically see Sherlock suddenly ticking off the little boxes as the evidence plays all too clearly on John’s face. John cannot lie to him, even when he means to. Sherlock can detect the lies forming in John’s head even before John can form them into words.

The detective narrows his eyes and John can see Sherlock finally, finally slotting the final pieces together. He pulls back even more; finally letting go of John’s arms and John misses the touch so desperately he almost pleads for it to return. Sherlock furrows his brows and actually wipes his hand on the sleeve of his coat, as if John’s emotions are contagious. John scrambles for the last shreds of his coherency, he gathers them up and holds them tightly until he no longer needs the wall to keep him upright. He dares a glance at Sherlock. He’s standing at the opposite wall, his arms folded over his chest, his lips pressed in sickly grimace. Disappointment. John thinks, that is the worst thing of all. John has prepared for anger, resentment or even disinterest, but not this look as if John has just betrayed him.

In the silence that follows, John’s world goes a little bit bleaker.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, giving John time to rein in his scattered thoughts and emotions. He takes a couple of steadying breath, pulls himself away from the wall to stand in front of Sherlock, catching his gaze, trying to gauge his reaction to John’s proximity. His scent is cold and harsh, his eyes are fathomless, and John sees something different than the raging storm in their depths. Sherlock is looking at John with a dare in his eyes. “Go ahead, John. Lie to me. Lie to me, and we can continue to ignore this silly infatuation.”

“I’m… ” John tries, curling his hands into the pockets of his jacket, to anchor himself so he doesn’t throw himself at Sherlock and wrap his arms around him, bury his nose in the crook of his neck, and try to remember that delicious scent that almost had him scrambling at the floor just a few seconds ago.  
His throat feels like it’s filling with cotton.

You can’t lie to Sherlock Holmes, so what stumbles out him is the truth, but it’s not all of the truth, but it’s better than the ridiculous alternative: “I’m an Omega and you’re an Alpha, and you believe that my emotions are a chemical defect, a dead-end of biology, but I am rather hopelessly in love with you.”

“I’m thinking about moving out,” is what he does say.

John’s not sure what reaction he is bracing himself for, but Sherlock simply spins around on his heels and disappears downstairs to his bedroom. John remains in the corridor for a few more seconds, he’s not sure if he’s horrified by the reaction or relieved.

John swallows and swallows, and wills his thundering heart to calm down. He thuds his head exhaustedly against the wall and shuts his eyes, slowly he sinks to the floor and presses his shaking hands between his knees to halt the tremors.

Bloody hell.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock remains still as the clutter of breakfast is cleaned up around him. His hands are curled around his cup of rapidly cooling tea. He doesn’t notice that John is sitting down across from him until John accidentally knocks his hand against Sherlock’s and he stiffens. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John is certain he feels, for a second, the prickling of goosebumps along Sherlock’s skin. It looks like Sherlock is continuing to hone his skills in ignoring John.

John thinks he should excuse himself, but he doesn’t and Sherlock remains silent. Sherlock had remained locked in his room all last night and so far this morning he hasn’t uttered a word to John. He looks remarkably well rested while John struggles to not fall asleep on his toast. It is decidedly unfair. It’s the most uncomfortable meal John has ever sat down for, and that includes the aftermath of the massive blowout between Harry and his father after Harry announced that she was gay.

John tries several times to start a conversation. He wants to try and explain why he needs to move out, that way Sherlock can lament to him about how he warned John off at their first meeting and how dreadfully disappointed he is that John is, after all, so predictable. That would be more like Sherlock, for John really hates this silent version of his flatmate.

He wants Sherlock to ask him to stay. He doesn’t, of course. Sherlock maintains most of his focus on whatever is on his mobilw, but now and again he steals a glance at John. John hates the way Sherlock is looking at him, like they aren’t even friends anymore. John feela like he’s going to throw up and he forces down a piece of dry toast to remove the taste of bile rising in his throat.

“Lestrade texted me,” Sherlock says, mostly to the air. “There’a been a robbery he wants my help on, thinks maybe it is connected.”

“A robbery,” John says, knowing he doesn’t sound enthusiastic enough.

“A robbery,” Sherlock repeats slowly, as if John’s particularly dimwitted. “I doubt it’s connected, but at least it’s something.” He’s already halfway across the room, grabbing his coat from the rack and shrugging it over his lean frame before John even has had time to put down his cup of tea.

“You want me to come with you?” John asks, dreading the answer.

“Why?” comes the instant and lofty response and then John hears the sound of the front door slamming shut.

John grits his teeth and counts to ten. The count reaches twenty before John feels any better.

John picks up yesterday’s newspaper and carries it with him into the living room. He sinks into his chair and places his cup of fresh tea on the side table.

He decides he won’t think about Sherlock. Much. He’ll try not to, at any rate.

His plan works for a while. John reads an article about gender equality in high-income jobs and about how the majority of these jobs are currently held by Alphas. It’s a familiar story. Either the Alphas are out in the streets, ticking time bombs of hormones and suppressed rage, or they are dominating the financial circles. The author carefully speculates if the Alphas’ ability to influence others gives them an unfair advantage in society.

Omegas rarely feature in the media, in the past ten years they’ve petered to obscurity. People are no longer interested in seeing Omegas in pornography, in the movies, or even reading about Alpha-Omega relationships in fiction. They’ve been assimilated into every day life. Become invisible. There’s not even been a mention of male Omega pregnancy in medical literature in the past eight years.

John supposes this is what Omegas have wanted from the beginning. It is what he wanted when he first learned he was one, to be invisible and forgotten.

It is a peaceful afternoon and beyond the silence of the flat he hears the thrum of London, the soft scratch of the wind against the windows, the rumbling of a double-decker going by, the distant sound of a police siren, and Mrs. Hudson’s BBC1 radio show.

It strikes John how he’s already used to this strange life of his as a flatmate and occasional assistant to the world’s only consulting detective. These strange life and death situations Sherlock and he find themselves in and the weird calm in between cases. It’s cured him of his psychosomatic limp. And when they don’t have a case he loves the domesticity they somehow, inexplicably, have found themselves in, with Sherlock conducting some sort of experiment in the kitchen while he reads. John’s not sure how he will be able to cope without this. Is he going to back to a dreadful council estate flat and a fulltime job at a clinic? Is he ever going to read a newspaper or watch the news and wonder how Sherlock was involved in the solving of a particularly crime?

Of course, the real question, the one he is avoiding, is how he will be able to cope without Sherlock?

The rest of the morning rolls slowly by. John finishes reading the newspaper and his cup of tea. He makes himself a new cup of tea, he watches an old episode of Top Gear and QI, because there is always an old episode of Top Gear or QI on the telly, he makes sure that his mobile is fully charged and that the volume is on.

He checks this several times, just in case.

John is trying to decide what to do about lunch. The only thing they have in the apartment is beans and toast and John isn’t particularly eager to revisit that part of student living. On the other hand he isn’t all that motivated to go out to eat either, since there is something depressing about eating out alone, even if it is just grabbing something at Speedy’s.

He’s surrendered himself to asking Mrs. Hudson if she fancies something to eat when there is a tentative knock on the door. He frowns and pushes himself out of his chair, suddenly feeling a twinge in his leg that almost makes him lose his footing.

John struggles to the door, clutching his leg. He opens it and is startled to see Glen Reese’s red, plump face smiling at him. It’s been weeks since that ghastly meeting at the pub and John has more or less placed Glen Reese and his Alpha in the same shoebox as all the other things he doesn’t want to think about.

Christ, what does this guy want now?

“Mr. Reese?” John asks, a cautious lilt in his voice. He’s not sure how he’ll explain his presence to Sherlock should he suddenly decide to return.

“Doctor Watson, I hope I am not intruding?” Glen Reese looks hopefully over John’s shoulder and into the flat, and John wonders if he’s disappointed or relived to not find the Alpha at home.

“I was just about to grab some lunch…” John says, hoping that his tone of voice is enough to indicate to Glen Reese that this is not a good time for a social call.

“I thought as much,” Glen Reese says and holds out a white plastic bag and a tote bag from Waterstones. He jiggles it carefully. “I took the liberty. Pasta-salad and fresh focaccia bread?”

The smell of marinated and grilled chicken is enough to startle a grumble from John’s stomach that doesn’t require Omega hearing to pick up. With a slightly forced smile, John opens the door wider.

“Please, come in.”

Glen Reese strolls into the flat as if he’s lived there all his life. He bustles into the kitchen and John has to sweep in to rescue some of Sherlock’s more critical experiments. Glen Reese doesn’t seem to notice, or care, about the industrial sized microscope or the assortment of petri dishes that cover most of the table and kitchen worktop.

“You got any plates? Oh, no never mind we’ll eat out of the cartons, no worries; could do with some knives and forks, mind. Oh, look, they were kind enough to provide us with plastic ones, and napkins. Isn’t that considerate? Lovely. You have anything to drink?”

John saves one of Sherlock’s spidery diagrams and scrawls from the hurricane of Glen Reese’s lunch. He selects a pair of glasses that he suspects are reasonably clean and fills them with cold, bottled water.

“Well,” Glen Reese clasps his hands together and beams at the spread of food on the table: pasta, fresh salads and fruits, grilled chicken, and warm bread. John admits that it’s probably the healthiest lunch ever consumed in 221B. He slides onto a chair and pulls over a carton of food at Glen Reese’s eager beckoning.

They eat for a moment in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable one, but there’s a noticeable tension in the air and John cannot stop studying Glen Reese’s every movement: the way his chin wobbles when he chews, the way his fingers look even fatter dabbing the thin napkins to the corner of his fleshy lips.

“So…” John asks slowly when the food is consumed and the debris packed away. He wonders how he’s going to find a polite way to ask what the bloody hell Glen Reese is doing here.

“Oh, right,” Glen Reese clasps his hands together again with a small smile.

“Well, why did you decide to drop by?”

“Yes, right. I’m sorry to trouble you, but might I use the loo for a moment?” Glen Reese asks sheepishly.

John gives him a slightly suspicious look and shrugs. “It’s on this floor, past the living room, first door to your left.” There’s a faint tint of blush in Glen Reese’s cheeks as he makes another round of excuses, a few seconds later John can hear his heavy and clumsy footsteps dragging him across the living room.

John hears Glen Reese lumbers around in the bathroom. After a while, the pipes rattle as he flushes the toilet and he turns on the tap. John can hear the burring sound of the water tapping inside the walls and then things are quiet for a second before he can hear Glen Reese move again.

Glen Reese returns, smiling kindly, and John mimics it to the best of his ability.

“So, you see, well, I hope you don’t find me too much of an imposition, the lunch was more of an excuse than anything, but I am so glad you wanted to share it with me. It wasn’t all that difficult to figure out where you live, with you being a minor celebrity and all,” Glen Reese starts and moves over to the tote bag and fishes out a slender book with a brown paper cover.

“I was reading this book, and it’s really well written, a little too academic for my taste, loads of difficult words and terms, and don’t get me started on the handwriting! But there you have it, and well - I was just curious.” There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I know how this is always so secret, but after what you told me about how you’ve managed on your own and how you were so determined to live in secrecy and without an Alpha, well - is this you?”

John flips open the book. It’s filled from cover to cover with a looping handwriting that is almost impossible to decipher, but John recognizes the shorthand that doctors employ. On the first page the name ‘David’ is written in capital letters and the date for his first meeting with Doctor Fenway.

John scans the pages, making passing note of additional dates and remarks. He feels something inside him curdle, and when he speaks there’s an unmistakable tremor in his voice.

“How did you…” John glances up from the book to Glen Reese’s beaming eyes.

“It’s Doctor Fenway’s latest book. It’s not in printing yet, but he asked me to read it through, to get an Omega’s perspective on it all. Maybe counteract some of the points you, oh, I mean ‘David’ argues. Maybe even write a little foreword. It’s really quite an honor, he’s never asked me to help him with anything this important before,” Glen Reese titters with excitement.

John returns to the first page and slowly reads through Doctor Fenway’s description of David realizing that he is an Omega. He describes David’s fear and frustration over the dramatic and difficult changes in his body. He chronicles David’s first meeting with an Alpha so vividly that his emotions run riot down memory lane, and for a blinding second John’s certain that Adrian Reese is going to appear in his kitchen and he locks his fingers tightly around the book to leash in his anger and fear.

Doctor Fenway continues, using John’s own words from their many sessions throughout the years: describing David’s decision to join the army and hide his nature as an Omega from his friends and family. He writes about how David’s thrill seeking nature makes him such an unusual Omega, how they are usually dependable and domestic types. Doctor Fenway muses on how deciding to live in secrecy is not an unusual decision from people who first learn that they are an Omega, but that they seldom put themselves in Alpha dominated occupations because of the high risk of detection.

According to the index, Doctor Fenway has devoted four entire chapters to discussing why David is so vehement in insisting that he doesn’t need an Alpha and all the ways this is eventually going to be harmful to him. Perhaps David wanted to be detected and that is why he placed himself amongst all those Alphas? Maybe David has a secret desire to be wanted and to be dominated by Alphas like other Omegas, but is too ashamed to voice it and thus requires the situation be forced on him?

John pinches the bridge of his nose and forces is eyes shut. When he opens his eyes, the damned book is still in his hand. He feels anger curling along his spine and he locks his hands to stop himself from throwing the book straight at Glen Reese’s pudgy face.

“David made me think of you, just… the way you acted around Sherlock Holmes and the things you said,” Glen Reese repeats. “Doctor Fenway thinks this is just a way for you to try and escape the reality of your situation.”

“Well,” John’s throat feels like he’s trying to swallow sandpaper. “It’s not me,” he says with enough firmness in his voice that he hopes he convinces Glen Reese, even if does little for his own convictions. He hands the book back go Glen Reese who carefully tucks it away.

“Oh, of course. I understand.” Glen Reese still smiling and he tries to wink, with both his eyes. John thinks that he might not have been as convincing as he had hoped.

“I wonder if Doctor Fenway would ever publish my story. I mean it’s nothing special, but I think it could be helpful to other Omegas, you know, those who are hesitant to Bond with an Alpha. It would be nice to help others who are hesitant. Omegas really should Bond, we aren’t whole until we do. Did you ever hear the Greek myth about soul mates? Like how we are all really one person split in half?”

“I…” John starts.

“According to the myth, I have always been fascinated with myths, you know. Anyways, according to the myth Zeus, he’s a Greek god, split humans in half as a punishment for humanity’s pride and also doubling the number of humans who would then give tribute to the gods. All these humans who had been split in two were in utter misery, you know, they starve themselves to the brink of death because food and drink held no appeal for them. Then, Apollo, he’s another Greek god, took the poor humans and tries to stich them up and make them whole again, but the humans would always long for his or her other half. When you find your soulmate you will finally, finally feel whole and there would be no greater joy than that. I think that’s why we fit together, us Alphas and Omegas, we are each a part of one soul, split and rebound.” Glen Reese sighs blissfully.

“It’s just such a wonderful feeling, being with somebody who you really belong to: mind, body, and soul. Your perfect match, somebody who completes, fills this void in you. Somebody who will tend to you and take care of your needs and who will give you children and a home. You just know when you’ve found your Alpha, his scent is so…. it’s so enticing, and his touch is addictive and you just want to stay with him forever.” Glen Reese sighs blissfully, and John feels his cheeks burn.

This is really the last thing he needs, Glen Reese giving voice to everything John’s been trying to suppress for the last couple of weeks.

“Thanks for the lunch, but I’m afraid I’ve got to…” John starts hurriedly, he really can’t stand another second of Glen Reese. Doctor Fenway’s book has wound him up and John’s worries he is going to release all his frustration and anger in the form of a fist into Glen Reese’s red and smiling face. Thankfully, Glen Reese finally takes the hint and starts bustling towards the door.

“Sure, sure. It was nice seeing you again,” he beams at John and extends his fleshy hand for John to shake. He hesitates before he accepts the hand and gives it a firm shake. John watches Glen Reese until he disappears down the street just to reassure to himself that he’s really gone.

John returns to his room, closes the door, and slumps to the floor like a ragged doll. He shuts his eyes and groans at the unfairness of biology. This time the count reaches fifty before he manages to calm his raging emotions.

Shite.

It takes him a few seconds to gather his wits and punch in the private number to Doctor Fenway.

“Doctor George Fenway.”

“Doctor Fenway,” John says, moving away from the door to stand by the window so he can keep watch over the walkway to 221.

“Doctor Watson, what an unexpected surprise. What can I do for you?” He speaks slowly and there’s a hesitation in his tone that makes John suspect that the phone call is really not all that unexpected, but still unwanted.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, his voice hard and firm. “Today.”

There’s a pause on the other side and John can hear the faint murmuring of another voice.

“Certainly,” he answers. “I cannot meet with you until late this evening at my office. 10 pm?”

“Fine. I will see you then.” John ends the call, not caring in the slightest at how appalled Lydia would have been at his lack of manners.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s past 9 pm by the time he gets a phone call. Not from Doctor Fenway or Sherlock, but DI Lestrade. DI Lestrade sounds chagrined, like he's been caught stealing cookies or something.

“John.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“I was wondering if you could come down to the Yard and collect - “

John lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“He’s stuck on the case?”

“He’s driving everyone around the bend. Look, I’m used to Sherlock being a bit of a berk, but something’s really got him rattled. He made poor Ms. Hooper cry, he’s never… is there something going on between the two of you? Can’t you just kiss and make up?”

John knows DI Lestrade is trying to lighten the mood, but he can hear the real anger and frustration behind his words.

John checks his watch and pinches the bridge of his nose. He thinks about how well their last conversation went and how much effort it will be to persuade Sherlock to come home. He can be extra stubborn if he is annoyed with John. John thinks it will be even worse now that he’s also disappointed. He really doesn’t want to have a row at the Yard, especially not about his feelings. There’s no room in his head, or heart, to deal with his flatemate on top of everything else that has happened today.

“Just, put him in a cab. I’ve got an appointment,” he sighs.

There’s a sudden silence on the other end and for a moment John wonders if DI Lestrade has hung up, or if he’s going to ask what sort of appointment John has at this hour.

“Sure,” Lestrade says. There’s a tension behind the words that John can’t identify and would rather not think about.

The call ends and John tucks his mobile away in his pocket. Christ. He’s never refused to help DI Lestrade or Sherlock and he hopes that neither of them will read anything into it.

John grabs his jacket and keys and makes sure the door is properly locked. The temperature has dropped and the cold wind brushes over his face and makes his eyes sting. He walks on stilted legs, his leg throbbing with burning pain for each step and for a second he debates going back to the flat and locate his cane. But no, he is not wiling to analyze the return of psychosomatic and how it may relate to his situation with Sherlock, and so he grits his teeth and quenches the pain.

He tosses a couple of coins into the cup of a homeless woman sitting outside of Speedy’s and hails a cab. John spends the ride to Doctor Fenway’s trying to remain calm, his arms folded over his chest, trying to contain the rage he feels burning inside.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John can always tell when somebody is nervous, a biological imperative of being an Omega. There is a taste in the air, a quiet thrum of electricity over his skin and he feels it thick and heavy as soon as he steps into the old office.

Doctor Fenway is sitting behind his oversized desk, scratching a few notes on a legal pad, and his gaze snaps up when John knocks softly on his door to announce his presence.

Doctor Fenway leans forward with a slight frown, only a slight twist of his mouth betraying any anxiety.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Doctor Fenway.”

Doctor Fenway makes a show of clearing his throat and shuffling his papers away, locking them in his desk.

“How do you fare, Doctor Watson?” Doctor Fenway asks.

“Everything is fine, I want to talk to you about this book.”

There is another moment of silence before Doctor Fenway continues, acting as if he didn’t hear John’s question. “We’ve been talking for a while now, Doctor Watson.”

John nods in agreement, balling his hands into fists. He needs to stay calm and on topic. “Yes, so about this book…”

“And you know I’ve made a number of notes about our conversations - all under pseudonym as always. I do protect the anonymity of my patients who so desire it.” John frowns, wondering where Doctor Fenway is going with this conversation.

“I’ve had the privilege of knowing many Alphas and Omegas, all of them unique individuals in their own way.” Doctor Fenway rises slowly and walks over to the row of filing cabinets. He lingers there, his hands clasped at the small of his back, balancing on the balls of his feet.

John can tell that Doctor Fenway is restless and wonders at the cause of his unease. He glances about the empty office, but everything is in its usual place. His gaze lingers for a moment on the doorway to the private washroom and he sees the pale glow of light along the crack of the door. It must be a trick of light, but for a moment it looks like there is somebody moving on the other side.

He takes a step towards it when Doctor Fenway says suddenly, “Doctor Watson,” his voice is low and he looks all his of his sixty years. “I’ve not… I’ve made mistakes.” Doctor Fenway runs a hand over the thin, grey wisps of his hair in quick, agitated movements. He laughs nervously, but it doesn’t sound all that sincere. John is suddenly suspicious of where this is going for there’s a clench in his gut that tells him that something is very wrong. Without really thinking about it, he moves to position himself by the exit.

“Do you remember when you first came here, the day after you presented as an Omega?”

The memory is carved in stone and having read about it a couple of hours earlier has made it stand out that much more clearly. John has to swallow before he can speak and the words taste foul on his mouth.

“Vividly. It is a difficult thing to forget.”

“The man you met in the corridor after our session, you remember him?.”

John doesn’t get the chance to answer, because Doctor Fenway keeps talking.

“He was an exceptionally bright child; cunning, very perceptive, charismatic, like most, well, like most Alphas. He was a skilled manipulator: children, adults, males, females and even figures in authority. He has a dominant personality, though he seldom comes across as aggressive. Always more subtle.”

“I don’t understand…” John tries. “I really only want to talk to you about your book.”

“He’s got a violent streak,I was surprised when... and he´s very persistent, if he desires something he’ll not give up until he has it. I had thought that when he Bonded he´d settle down, but....” Doctor Fenway continues as if John is not even in the room.

John´s unease ratchets up another notch as he watches as Doctor Fenway slides away from the filing cabinets to stand by the window. His back is brittle with tension and John can smell the musky scent of sweat and fear. He glances at the doorway to the washroom and the exit, but he cannot detect movement behind either doors.

“He’s always boasted about how he can orchestrate these… great plots, years in planning. When you hear him talking, it is most impressive, all his plans, his visions. Like the world is his Machiavellian playground.” Doctor Fenway turns to John with a fond smile that John knows isn’t meant for him.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you should know, Doctor Watson. That Alphas´s aren´t.....”

“What do you mean?” John asks. Alphas in his life, is he talking about Sherlock? But no, Sherlock had said that he never had any sessions with Doctor Fenway, Mycroft had seen to that. John’s mind is spinning through hundreds of possible explanations, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he had Sherlock’s powers of observation and deductive skills so he’d be able to understand exactly what Doctor Fenway is trying to tell him. But Doctor Fenway keeps his back to John, rigid and impassive and impossible to read.

“Doctor Fenway,” Johns says sternly, “I came to talk to you about the book you are planning to release, on ‘David’?”

Finally Doctor Fenway turns to regard John, but his eyes show nothing but alert curiosity. “David?”

“Mr. Reese, Glen Reese, came to me and said you asked him to read through the notes on a new book you’re going to publish on an Omega. Named David.”

“Doctor Watson, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John may not be as observant and skilled in reading people as Sherlock Holmes, but he knows that Doctor Fenway is lying.

“David, the Omega who secretly joins the army, becomes a doctor, and has an Alpha flatmate,” John says slowly, enunciating each word.

“Doctor Watson, you must understand what an unique and interesting case you make. The discourse on Alpha and Omega dynamic is in dire need of being revitalized,” Doctor Fenway replies. He moves slowly away from the filing cabinets and settles behind his desk again. John wonders if Doctor Fenway is knowingly adding a physical barrier between himself and John.

“So you were just going to write a book about my life and not even ask my permission?” John says, a trembling beat in his voice that he does not bother to hide.

Doctor Fenway remains silent; his hands folded on the top of his desk, a faint smile dimpling his cheeks. It’s probably meant to be placating, but all it does is add fuel to John’s ire.

He was never going to ask for John’s permission before he published his life story for everyone to read. And what is John going to do, take him to court for breach of doctor-patient confidentiality? Is he really going to argue that he is David? No, of course not.

John suddenly realizes that every book, thesis, paper, and article Doctor Fenway has published, all those lives he has put to ink and given to the public for perusal, he has done it without the consent of the Alphas and Omegas he’s been talking to. He’s lured them in with his expertise, his kindness, and understanding. He’s given Omegas their suppressants in secret and allows them to live normal lives. But it’s all for show. Doctor Fenway has made his fame and fortune on the stories of vulnerable people who trust him with their secrets and fears. John thinks back to his time as a premed student taking Doctor Fenway’s classes, all the case studies, x-rays, blood work, hormone readings, and pictures he’d shared and had his students discuss. They were the stories of people who’ve had their lives dissected and judged by strangers, knowing that none of them would ever be in a position to protest this breach of privacy.

John groans, disgust mingling with disbelief in his scowl. He can’t believe he’s been this naive.

“I want my file,” John growls, stalking over to the filing cabinet. Doctor Fenway remains seated behind his desk, watching him as John draws open the D cabinet and flicking through it.

“Where is it?”

“It’s not filed under ‘David’,” Doctor Fenway says, sounding smug. “I’ve devised the filing system myself and only I know how to decode it. You can search all your like, well, as long as it takes security to come and escort you off the premises for threatening behavior.” He holds a brown file loftily in his hands, a small smirk on his face.

John strikes his fist into the cabinets, making them rattle.

“You arsehole,” John says, his voice clipped with anger. “I was just a kid and I came to you for help because you’re the foremost expert on Omegas and I didn’t understand what was happening with my own body.”

Doctor Fenway leans back in his chair, hands slightly raised, and he remains as calm and poised as a cat when John marches angrily over and slams his hand onto the desk and yanks the file out of Doctor Fenway’s hands.

“Is this why you insisted on all those conversations, to document my story so you could publish it?” John suddenly realizes that he’s shaking his own file at Doctor Fenway.

“Of course, Doctor Watson. I am somewhat surprised you did not cease contact as soon as you were pensioned out of the army. There was really no need for you to live in secrecy anymore.”

“That was my choice,” John growls.

“You are quite interesting, Doctor Watson,” Doctor Fenway says, his voice still warm and calm and grating on every inch of John’s self-control. “For most Omegas the instinct is to submit and protect oneself. You, however, seek danger in an effort, I believe, to prove to the world how you are most definitely not an Omega.”

“When my colleagues and friends read that book, they will realize that David is me.”

“You mean,” Doctor Fenway says smugly, “your Alpha, Sherlock Holmes, will realize.”

Before John can reply, door to the office suddenly opens and a middle-aged woman steps inside. “Is everything alright, Doctor Fenway?” She asks in clipped tone.

John suddenly realizes how the tableau must look, his face pale with rage, looming threateningly over Doctor Fenway’s desk while Doctor Fenway is leaning back in his chair, looking like he’s trying to keep John calm.

“Everything is fine, Mrs. Larsen. Doctor Watson was just going to hand me his file.”

John grips the file so tightly he can feel the papers crunch in his hands.

“Doctor Watson,” Doctor Fenway says, still as calm as ever. John grits his teeth and glances at the woman in the doorway before placing the file back in Doctor Fenway’s open hand. Doctor Fenway smiles, and slides it into a drawer on his desk before locking it.

John blinks; finally managing to calm himself enough to walk to realize what is almost happening. Assaulting Doctor Fenway, as much as he wants to, is not going to solve anything. The anger seeps out of him leaving him drained and tired in a way he hasn’t felt since the first night he was discharged from the army.

“Why are you doing this?” John asks meekly, his entire posture slumping in defeat.

“There are people who pay good money for this research.” Doctor Fenway says, a quick glance at the bathroom door and then he glances at his wristwatch. “Now, Doctor Watson. It is quite late. I must ask that you leave.”

“Right. Fine.” John concedes, he can feel his angry scowl slip from his face and he has no idea what to replace it with. For the first time in many years, John doesn’t know what to do next.

He finds himself standing alone outside the university. It’s near midnight and the cold wind brings with it threats of rain, and he braces himself for the oncoming deluge. The pain in his leg vibrates mercilessly and he has to stops every four steps to catch his breath. At least, John thinks, he doesn’t have to ever see Doctor Fenway again.

 

However, less than eight hours later he’s crouching under the police tape to enter Doctor Fenway’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I wish to thank all of you who have read, reviewed or given me kudos. Your words of encouragement is what moves my fingers to the keyboard.
> 
> I would like to get to know more of you, so please feel free to contact me here or on tumblr, where I work under Friolerofiction.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, well, this entire story, would not be possible without my wonderful beta, kgatz, who not only makes the story what it is, but also teaches me things about noses and American geography.
> 
> In addition, I owe oodles of thanks and gratitude to everyone who has given me a comment or dropped me a kudos. Your words of encouragement means the world to me. Thank you!
> 
> This is somewhat of a special chapter, because I believe it marks the halfway point of the story (as far as my notes goes).

         “It is only the Alpha who can break the Bond between Mates. This was proven by Dr. Fenway (Fenway, G. 1989) who proved that an Alpha can always abandon his mate for what he considers a superior genetic pairing.  An Omega who has been Bonded will always find it difficult to attract another Alpha, especially so if there are children as a result of the Bond, because the new Alpha will perceive the previous relationship and the children as competitors to the survival of its own genetic inheritance.

                 The physiological effect of the Bond, and the breaking of it, has never been fully understood, but the psychological ramifications on the Omega have been well documented:  while the Alpha is not affected, the Omega enters what has accurately been compared to as deep stages of depression, often accompanied by suicidal thoughts.”  (Lee, Finkle A., _An Omega´s Guide._   4th edition.  Free Press: 2009)

 

 **Pleas note!** Warning for mentions of suicide attempt by drowning, (though not by any of the main characters.) I also wish to warn you of a somewhat graphic description of a crime scene.

 

**Chapter 9.**

 

         There is blood all over Doctor Fenway’s face and his battered mouth hangs open. His eyes are swollen closed. He is tied to his chair, his arms behind his back, and the plastic strips that had been used to bind his hands have bruised the thin skin on his wrists.  The cardigan is stained red with blood from his face and the multiple gunshot wounds to his chest.  The wall of diplomas behind his head is mottled with sprays of blood. Even the wall behind Doctor Fenway has not escaped the gunman’s ire.  The once meticulous office has been ransacked, chairs knocked over, curtains razed, drawers open and spewing papers, and several folders have been thrown across the floor.

 

         John presses his eyes shut for a moment, trying not to connect the mutilated corpse of Doctor Fenway with the old man he’s known for over a decade and who he saw so very alive just a few hours ago.

 

_Bloody hell._

 

         He can feel the dull pain from his leg ebb up to join the headache that is brewing behind his forehead.  The scene from last night plays clearly across his memory: the way he had slammed his fist on the filing cabinets, his hands splayed on Doctor Fenway’s desk. His fingerprints are going to be _everywhere_.  He can recall every word he shouted at Doctor Fenway.There is going to be a witness who saw them arguing.  He’s going to be a prime suspect, he shouldn’t even be here,he should be at home, or better, at a solicitors office, going over his statement.

    

         John glances over at the detective in charge of the crime scene. It’s not DI Lestrade, but a tall, slender man with flaxen hair and a pencil mustache.  He’s dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and a heavy leather jacket that make him look a bit like a biker.  He carries with him the familiar smell of an all-nighter: coffee and nicotine. There is something else behind that scent though, heavy and pungent like that time when Sherlock forgot (“It was an experiment, John!”) a box of Chinese dumplings under the sofa.

 

         He had introduced himself, gruffly, as DI Dregs. There had been an odd moment when Sherlock, strolling into the crime scene with his usual air of royalty arriving for a coronation, had frozen in his steps and glared at DI Dregs. John had been reminded of the time Lydia had brought home a dog and their old house cat had glared at the intruder with such hostility  that John had been glad that looks could not kill.  DI Dregs had simply bid Sherlock a cursory nod before retreating to the corner of the room, his arms crossed, and his expression wooden as he surveyed the crime scene with glacial calm.  Sherlock hadn’t given him more than a second glance before he descended upon the crime scene with his usual enthusiasm, though not before taking the time to loudly lament Anderson’s presence and the negative effect it had on the collective intellect of the room.

 

         John remains standing still in the middle of the room, his stomach rolling unpleasantly, threatening to push bile up his throat. He swallows and swallows as the room tilts slowly backwards and forwards.   _Christ,_ if they learn about the book Doctor Fenway was thinking about publishing and if they figure out it’s about him, he’s fairly certain he’ll quickly become the prime suspect.  The rightthing to do would be to excuse himself from the crime scene and make his statement to the DI in charge. But that is going to open the proverbial can of worms, he would be outing himself to everyone, something he worked so hard his entire adult life not to do.  Not to mention, Sherlock would know.

 

         “John,” Sherlock calls lazily from where he is crouched by the foot of Doctor Fenway’s massive Oxford desk. John can feel the corner of his mouth quirk in a quick, nervous, smile, and he huffs a laugh, hides his hands in his pockets, and walks carefully over to where Sherlock is working.

 

         “The body, John,” Sherlock waves a hand in the general direction of Doctor Fenway’s slumped corpse.

 

         “I…” John starts, his gaze darting to DI Dregs. The detective inspector runs a finger slowly across his mustache, his eyebrows raising to his hairline before he gives John the barest nod of permission and he schools his features again.

 

         Maybe he’ll be able to think of some reasonable explanation. Doctor Fenway was an old professor of his and they’ve kept in touch, despite their complete and utter different medical field. Or. John was considering a teaching position at the university and had sought the advice of an old tutor.  It sounded reasonable to John, but he was certain Sherlock would be able to see right through him. John couldn’t lie to Sherlock Holmes.

 

         “Right. Fine,” John draws a shaky breath and picks up a pair of nitrile gloves.  He walks carefully over to Fenway’s body, being mindful of the drops of blood on the floor and sprayed across the surface of the desk.  He moves carefully around the reading lamp that has been positioned to shine right in Doctor Fenway’s face and notes specks of blood on the foot of lamp. Had the forensic theme been sloppy in their work and compromised the crime scene, or had the killer moved the lamp? He makes a mental note to ask about it later.

 

         John goes through the motions of an external and preliminary examination of the victim.  He makes a note of the extensive abuse Doctor Fenway suffered: several blows to the face, his nose is bloodied, but not broken.  There is a cut on the left of his forehead that looks to have been made by a blunt instrument. There’s a marble reward plaque sitting on his desk, stained by blood and small clumps of hair, and it doesn’t require the mind of a consulting detective to put the two together. The only other bruising he can see is on Doctor Fenway’s wrists.

 

         John counts the bullet wounds on the victim’s chest and compares them to the number of holes in the wall.  Either the shooter was the world’s worst gunman, or he was hoping to scare Doctor Fenway into talking.  The latter seems improbable, because somebody would surely have heard the shots and come running. He recognizes all too clearly the bullet wounds on Doctor Fenway’s chest, he’s examined plenty of them in accidental shooting and friendly misfire during his time in army.

 

         To John the assault looks, well, he thinks the entire set up is a bit of a cliche The blows are certainly painful, but there’d not been enough force behind them to do any more than bruise Doctor Fenway’s skin.  There’s no cuts or sprained bones in his hands or fingers and then there is the damned lamp. Do people really think that is an effective interrogation technique?

 

         John carefully removes his hand from where it’s been keeping Doctor Fenway’s body upright for examination and lets it pitch forward over the desk again.

 

         “There are several light abrasions, all doneantemortem.  All the injuries are superficial and none of none of them would have been fatal. It’s a bit of a set up,” John says to Sherlock’s bent figure as the consulting detective scours the base of Doctor Fenway’s desk.  “Looks like a bad movie set up.”

 

         Sherlock, as usual, gives no indication of having paid John any attention, and DI Dregs remains stoic in his corner and the rest of the crime scene technicians seem keen to follow the lead of their DI.

 

         John sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He misses DI Lestrade’s more casual approach to crime scene investigations, sipping his coffee and verbally sparring with Sherlock and negotiating truces between him and Anderson. DI Lestrade would have paid attention to John, even if he weren’t telling him anything the DI couldn’t deduce himself. It’s unusual for atmosphere of a crime scene to be this… strained.  John catches Sally Donovan and Anderson looking at him with something akin to chill politeness and tension is rolling off them in thick, heavy waves.

 

         John clears his throat and says more loudly, while Sherlock finally rises from the floor, “I’m sure the autopsy will confirm it, but I’d put his death to somewhere between one am and six am this morning. I’d say the cause of death is… well, any one of those bullet wounds would have been fatal if not treated immediately, with all of them together it’s impossible which one was fatal.”

 

         He doesn’t add that he’d left Doctor Fenway alive at around midnight after their argument.

 

         Sherlock’s eyebrows hunch and he makes a non-committal sound that John knows means that even though Sherlock trusts his estimation of time of death, he’ll wait until he has the full autopsy report before he lets it influence his deductions.

 

         “Do we know anything about the victim?” DI Dregs asks as he pushes himself away from the corner to stand beside Sherlock, though keeping more than a respectful distance between them.  John is immensely grateful that Sherlock answers for him.

 

         “Doctor George Fenway, 67, unmarried, no children. He was the leading specialist on Alpha-Omega psychology and physiology and was considered the leading authority in his field.  Until six months ago he still gave an occasional lecture at King’s College, but he had retired from the majority of his teaching obligations to focus on his research. He’s noted for the publication of several case studies on Alphas but, curiously enough, he never published anything on Omegas. His last publication was four years ago.”

 

         “You must know him, then,” DI Dregs comments and Sherlock nods absently. “Only by reputation, he gave up trying to contact me after Mycroft paid him a visit.”

 

         John thinks of his own visit with Mycroft and feels his gut twist in sympathy. The first time he met with Doctor Fenway in this office he had thought him a man of authority and power.  After getting acquainted with the older Holmes, he had had to reconsider his definition of the words.

 

         “There was a research assistant outside, send him in,” DI Dregs calls and one of the crime scene technicians opens the door and the grad student stumbles into the office.  He’s a slender young man with brown hair carefully groomed away from his face and a patchy beard that John thinks he’s been growing in an attempt to look older. He suspects he’s wearing the wire-rimmed glasses for the same reason.  He’s holding a tablet and his green eyes immediately lock on Doctor Fenway’s corpse.

 

         “What’s your name?” DI Dregs asks.

 

         “I’m, I’m,” the young man’s Adam’s apple bobs a couple of times before he finally remembers his name.  “I’m Allen Farren.”

 

         Sherlock looks sharply at Allen Farren and John knows that in one sweeping glance Sherlock has deduced hundreds of things about Allen Farren.

 

         “American.  You grew up in the Midwest, North or South Dakota maybe; most likely from middle class family background, moved to England on a scholarship to study medicine against your parents’ wishes. Your father wanted you to follow in his footsteps, possibly as a mechanic or some sort of working class occupation.”

 

         “I… yes?” Allen Farren stutters.  John can empathize with the sensation of suddenly having to doubt your own life story after Sherlock Holmes picks it apart in seconds.

 

         “Are you able to tell us anything about Doctor Fenway’s filing system?” Sherlock interrupts.

 

         Allen Farren glances over at the mess of files and papers spewing from the cabinets and over the floor.

 

         “It’s… it might take a while to figure out if anything is missing.”

 

         “You think he was murdered for what’s in the files?” DI Dregs asks. “Who would they be valuable to?” He fishes out a black moleskin notebook and yellow pencil. He scribbles a few notes before looking expectantly at Allen Farren.

 

         “Um… maybe a competitive scholar?” the man young man suggests.

 

         “Doubtful,” Sherlock says, his forehead scrunched and his mouth slanting in a disapproving frown that he always get when faced with other people’s stupidity (which, according to Sherlock, is always).  “The Alpha-Omega dynamic is a dying field of study; it has no monetary value, no academic accolades, there has not been a new discourse for years - people are simply regurgitating other people’s facts and findings over and over again. If the killer was looking for something in the files, it would be something of personal value.”

 

         “Mr. Farren, how long had you been working with Doctor Fenway?” DI Dregs asks.

 

         “Since, um… since last semester.”  His voice quivers and he drags his gaze from Doctor Fenway to blink rapidly at his shoes.  “He… asked me to be his assistant, help him with some research.  He said he was planning on publishing something new.”

 

         “What was it?” Sherlock asks and John is one terrified heartbeat away from tackling Allen Farren to the ground to keep him quiet.

        

         “I don’t know,” Allen Farren concedes.  “He said he had just finished his notes and was, you know, he said he was ‘testing the waters’.”  He was going to tell me over… he was going to tell me later today.”

 

         “Hmm…” Sherlock muses, sounding almost disappointed. Sherlock narrows his eyes, thoughtful and pensive, as if he’s just noticed something new about Allen Farren. “You and Doctor Fenway were involved in a sexual relationship,” Sherlock suddenly announces. “He made you think you initiated it and that he was flattered by your attention and was eager to pursue it. I imagine it was quite common for Doctor Fenway to take his assistants as lovers.”

 

         The room falls silent and even DI Dregs loses his composure for a moment, his lips twisting in what John suspects may be an attempt at hiding a smile. It’s a fleeting moment, however, and he quickly schools his features.

 

         Allen Farren tries to stifle a loud whimper with his hands, dropping his tablet to the floor.  He rushes out of the room with a loud sob, his footsteps clicking away until they hear a door slam. The rest of the room watches him disappear in awkward silence before they look to Sherlock.

 

         “Don’t worry, he’s not the killer,” Sherlock says dismissively.

 

         “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John says, exasperated, running a hand across his face to wipe away his grin.

 

         Sherlock lifts a shoulder carelessly and slinks over to the row of filing cabinets, turning his back and his attention away from the rest of the forensic team. John watches him tip his head back and study the small display of pictures and diplomas that cover the wall above the cabinets.  John has read them hundreds of times, honorary doctorates and prestigious awards, the entire scholarly career of Doctor Fenway.  He’s suddenly acutely aware of how long and slender Sherlock’s neck is and the way his Adam’s apple slowly rises and falls, and he has to force his gaze away to stop himself from going over and doing something completely and utterly insane, like licking that pale expanse of skin.

 

         John walks idly over to the door leading to the washroom, remembering that he thought he saw movement there yesterday. The door is half open and he glances inside. The room is small and the floor and walls are covered in small, square white tiles with a naked light bulb in the ceiling. There’s a sink and a toilet and nothing else. Could it have been the killer, waiting for John to leave?  Why hadn’t Doctor Fenway said anything or given John some sign of distress? Maybe Doctor Fenway hadn’t realized there was somebody hiding in his washroom.  Maybe it had been John’s imagination.

 

         John sighs and pulls away from washroom, finally deeming it safe to return to Sherlock.  He sees DI Dregs pocketing his notebook and moving to stand next to Sherlock, taking care to maintain his distance from the Alpha.

 

         “A rather primitive way of storing information these days,” he remarks.

 

         “Safer than computers, can’t be hacked,” Anderson says from across the room where he is taking photographs of the windowsill. John thinks he’s being remarkably quiet about voicing his displeasure at Sherlock’s presence, so far he’s not uttered a single scathing comment.

 

         “No, you’ll just be murdered for their contents,” DI Dregs snorts.

 

         Sherlock bends quickly at the knees and flicks over a few pieces of paper, picking them up at random before tossing them to the floor, ignoring DI Dregs’s lamenting sigh and Anderson’s strangled, “He’s ruining evidence!”

 

         “Interesting,” Sherlock says in a tone of voice that John has concluded he uses just to make people ask “What?”

 

         “What?” Sally Donovan asks.

 

         “He’s using pseudonyms for all his patients files, look,” he shakes a handful of papers at Sally Donovan, “Jacob, Daniel, Samson, Ruth. No surnames, biblical names only.” He looks at her expectantly.

 

         “And?”

 

         Sherlock groans in frustration and John, now somewhat of an expert in following Sherlock’s leaps and bounds of reasoning adds for Sally Donovan’s benefit, “It means there must be an index system somewhere, how else would he be able to identify his patients?  And - “ he huffs a nervous laugh before Sherlock can interrupt him, “ - how did our killer know which pseudonym the file he was looking for was under?”

 

         Sherlock looks immensely pleased with John and John feels an absurd warmth blossom in his chest and his mouth quirks into a crooked smile before he can stop it. _I’m in so much trouble_ , he thinks with despair, turning away to hide his reaction.

 

         “How can you even tell that he was looking for something?” Sally Donovan asks.

 

         “This is all for show,” Sherlock says, nodding his head to general mess of the office. “The murderer wanted to hide what he was here for, what he took.”

 

         “How can you possibly tell?” DI Dregs demands, disgruntled.

 

         “The murderer first tried to make Doctor Fenway tell him where the information was, as is evidenced by the abuse.  If somebody were looking for something, they would, logically, start at the top and work their way down the rows of files until they found what they were looking for and then stop.  Only the drawers on the middle row are opened, the murderer was in a hurry to disguise his search.  They knew where to look.”

 

         Sherlock says all this in a rush of words while he’s sweeping his hand across the files strewn across the floor, a small grin slung on his face.

 

         “Is it not strange,” DI Dregs says from his corner, “that Doctor Fenway was shot several times?  You should think once would suffice.  And what is with those extra shots, warning shots?”

 

         “Perhaps the torturer was squeamish and preferred not to get his hands directly dirty,” Anderson suggests in a tone of voice that makes it difficult to tell if he’s serious or just joking.

 

         Sherlock doesn’t respond, and turns his attention back to the files in his hands. Anderson shrugs, unperturbed, and returns to supervising the techs photographing the scene.

 

         “May we take him now, sir?”  Two guys dressed in blue coveralls appear in the doorway, carrying a stretcher between them.

 

         “Go ahead,” DI Dregs says with a nod of his head.

 

         John watches as they take some final close-up photographs of Doctor Fenway’s head and chest and then proceed to carefully lift the late Doctor into a black body bag and zip it shut.  John follows the proceedings silently, respectfully, like he always does. No matter how many scenes he visits, no matter how many bodies are carried out, he can never manage to truly distance himself.  Unlike Sherlock, whom he knows only sees the remains as a source of data and evidence; John cannot help but to see the individual.  And this was a person he’d known for all of his adult life, and even if they hadn´t parted on amiable terms or his motives were all that good, Doctor Fenway did help John in a time when he had no idea what to do.

 

         John is suddenly immensely grateful for Doctor Fenway’s system of anonymity. He thinks about his own file lying among those tossed carelessly on the floor, his entire life spelled out in Doctor Fenway’s slanting handwriting.  He cannot imagine anything of Sherlock or Mycroft’s lives being in these files; Mycroft wouldn’t let anyone else gather information on him, and Sherlock would never have consented to something as pedestrian as a psychiatrist asking him redundant questions on his life as an Alpha.

 

         “Argh! Useless!  We need to get that assistant back, he is probably the only one who understands this system,” Sherlock says, a hand waving about, painting his frustration in the air.

 

         “You shouldn’t have sent him running then,” DI Dregs bites out. “Donovan, go and fetch the assistant, bring him down to the Yard to make his statement.”

 

         Sherlock huffs and pushes himself up far more gracefully than a man his age should be able to.  Then again, John reasons, Sherlock is always defying conventions.  “We need to know what is missing.  Text me when you have the autopsy report and that assistant ready for questioning.”

 

         “There is also the issue of a little something called patient confidentiality,” DI Dregs remarks calmly.  “We will need a court order to get patient files unsealed and that can take weeks.”

 

         “Boring!” Sherlock pronounces.

 

         Sherlock stalks out of the office and John offers a grin to DI Dregs, clasping his hands at the small of his back, and follows the Alpha. He pauses at the doorway, studying the office one final time, knowing he is never going to return here. As he trails his eyes over the bullet holes along the wall behind Doctor Fenway’s desk, his gaze suddenly snaps to DI Dregs.  The detective inspector runs a finger across his mustache and then he smiles, deliberate and slow.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

         They return Baker Street in silence.  John feels weird and shaky like he’s walking on eggshells and that at any moment Sherlock will demand that John tell him _everything_. But Sherlock is silent, his hands deep into the pockets of his great coat and his scarf resting loosely and softly around his neck.  John wonders if it is reasonable to be jealous of a scarf and bites the inside of his cheek, not trusting himself to say anything.

 

         They haven’t really spoken since John announced that he was going to find his own place.  Well, they have talked, certainly, but about everything but _that._  It is like Sherlock has decided to sweep that under the rug, along with John’s feelings for him. John’s too much of a coward to confront him or raise the subject again, because part of him likes that Sherlock is pretending that everything is _just fine._  

 

         But John knows it can’t last. He wants to say _something._

 

         No, that’s not the complete truth, what he wants is to sink to his knees before Sherlock, press his face against him and breathe in his scent in great lungfuls.  He wants to put into words, even if it is just in his own head, these feelings he is having for Sherlock, this _yearning_ to touch him that is burning beneath his skin.  Maybe if he could just….organize his thoughts, but them in order then he would be able to understand them, be able to define them. But every time John thinks he’s found the words, his courage deserts him in a last ditch attempt to maintain the status quo.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    

         Sherlock spends the evening preoccupied with the case. He fulminate against for a few hours the impracticality of patient confidentiality, as he is certain that, if he could just read the files, he could find Doctor Fenway’s murderer amongst them. In the end, he resorts to reading up on Doctor Fenway’s latest publications.  There’s a few times he snorts derisively and several academic papers end up curled into balls and tossed into the fireplace.  John spends the evening worrying about when the police are going to call him in and demand he explain what his fingerprints are doing in Doctor Fenway’s office, why a witness saw him in a heated argument with Doctor Fenway, and what Sherlock is reading about Alphas and Omegas that he finds so distasteful.

 

         John has sent a couple of texts to DI Lestrade asking if he can talk to him. He feels more comfortable giving his statement to DI Lestrade and not DI Dregs, because there is a niggling part of his mind that tells him that he doesn’t want to be in a small interrogation room with the latter.

 

         DI Lestrade, however, doesn’t respond and John steels himself to go to the Yard first thing in the morning and track him down in person. It will be better, he thinks, after he has explained everything to DI Lestrade.

 

         It will be just fine.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

         John struggles awake and scrambles for the light on his nightstand. His legs are tangled in his sheet and he’s knocked one of his pillows onto the floor. The light flickers on, casting dim shadows on his surroundings and chasing away the last vestiges of his nightmares. It’s usually Afghanistan, but this night he was back in the alley with Adrian Reese and it takes him three heartbeats to recognize his surroundings and to assure himself that the Alpha is not in the room.

 

         But it’s not the nightmare that’s awoken him, and it takes his sleep-addled mind a few seconds to recognize the shrill sound in the room. He fumbles for the source with one hand while part of his mind is searching for his gun, before it reminds him that the gun is now in his wardrobe and not in the nightstand drawer. He can feel his hand knocking over his glass of water, cursing as the liquid seeps into the sleeve of his pajamas and dripping to the carpet. He finds his phone on the third grasp and unlocks it with trembling fingers.

 

         “What?” John grunts sleepily.

 

         “Do… Doctor Watson,” a wrecked voice on the other end sobs.

 

         “Who is this? Is something wrong?”

 

         The person on the other end is obviously struggling to squeeze his words out between the snivels and tears.

 

         “I’m sorry, I just… I just… I had nobody else to call,” the voice cries and John thinks he recognizes the voice, though he wishes that he didn’t.

 

         “Glen Reese?” he asks, suddenly feeling wide-awake. He swings his legs over the edge of his bed and winces as his bare feet hit the cold floor at and the sudden pressure on his bad leg.  “What’s going on?”

 

         “My Alpha, Adrian, he’s… he’s… he’s gone,” Glen Reese bawls and it takes several moments for Glen Reese to compose himself enough to continue. “He broke the Bond and left, and I… I don’t know what to do without him!  What… what will happen to me?”

 

         “Just… ” John wipes a hand down his face, erasing the grit of sleep from his eyes, “just calm down and we can talk about it tomorrow,” he offers.

 

         Glen Reese only cries harder.

 

         “I tried to talk to Doctor Fenway, but they told me he was dead, that somebody murdered him!” Glen Reese howls.  “I’m all, I’m all alone now, who is going to take care of me?” John can hear the man hiccup for breath, his next words snagging on a high-pitched whine. “How could he just leave me? Suddenly… suddenly he says I’m not what he wants!  What did I do wrong? I tried to be perfect for him, I did… I did _everything_ he asked me to!”  Glen Reese’s voice grows suddenly quiet and distant, “Even all those… strange customs and things he wanted in the bedroom.”

 

_Bloody hell!_

 

         “I’m sure it’s nothing you did,” John starts, momentarily forgetting that this isn’t twenty-year-old Harry dealing with the breakup of her first serious girlfriend.

 

         “I must have done something wrong!” Glen Reese wails. “I did something bad or I wasn’t… I wasn’t good enough.  How can he say I’m not what he wants?  I thought we were so happy together and now he’s broken the Bond, and, oh God, I can’t… I can’t breathe, I can’t live without him.”

 

         “Mr. Reese… ” John tries, attempting to sound reasonable, but suspecting that he is missing it by about a mile.  He thinks about Glen Reese’s Alpha, the man who had once towered over him in an alley outside the Student Union Pub and forced him to his knees. The man who would most certainly have raped him if Sam Milligan had not come to his rescue. Glen Reese is far better off without him.

 

         “It hurts, Doctor Watson,” Glen Reese says, and suddenly his voice is oddly quiet. “When the Bond breaks, it really, really hurts, like… like somebody is squeezing my heart. And I can’t… I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!”  John can hear his voice, harsh and wretched and rising in pitch as Glen Reese nears the edge of a panic attack.

 

         “Mr. Reese. Just… ”

 

         “I can’t do this without him.  I need him, John. I need my Alpha! I love him and… and without him, I have nothing.  I am nothing.”

 

         “That’s not true,” John says, rising slowly.  He places his phone between his cheek and his shoulder and shimmies into his jeans.  It’s going to be impossible to go back to sleep now, he might as well get up and try to prepare himself for talking to DI Lestrade.

 

         “I can’t live without him!”

 

         “Mr. Reese, ” John tries again, “I’ve been fine without an Alpha all my life, and you will as well.  We don’t need them, Mr. Reese.  They aren’t necessary for a happy, fulfilling life.”

 

         “You were never Bonded!” Glen Reese snarls, and John has to hold his phone at arms length to escape the sudden venom in Glen Reese’s voice. “You don’t know… you have no idea how important it is to be Bonded, what it does to you, how it completes you! Nobody has ever cared for you, loved you, promised to spend their entire life with you.  Told you that you were meant to be together and that they would never, ever let you go.”

 

         John is tempted to hang up, he’s under no obligation to listen to Glen Reese rail at him, they aren’t friends, at best they are acquaintances and the only reason they are even that is because Glen Reese is an Omega who John happened to meet on a case and has been unable to shake ever since. He doesn’t want to know Glen Reese and all that he represents.

 

         “Now, look here… ” he starts, using his best approximation of Captain John Watson voice, the one that demands to be obeyed.

 

         Maybe it’s the authoritative voice, or because Glen Reese has shouted himself hoarse, but the phone is quiet.

 

         “Glen?” John asks, lowering his voice a notch, trying to sound sympathetic. 

 

         He can hear Glen Reese’s short, shallow breaths followed by, “I can’t live without him,” and then the phone is quiet, the call has ended. John stares at the dark screen in his hand for a second, and then he hits redial.  The phone chimes and chimes, but nobody answers, and, after the twentieth ring, John gives up.

 

         He pulls on his socks and shrugs on a shirt and a brown cable knit jumper. He pads downstairs, still trying to redial Glen Reese’s phone and not getting any response.

 

         The sitting room is dark and empty and the only thing visible is Sherlock’s violin, resting in its case by the sofa, but John can’t remember hearing him playing anything.  The sitting room smells like him and John allows himself the rare luxury of sinking into Sherlock’s chair and resting, craning his neck to stare at the ceiling and wondering what their cutlery is doing impaled on the plaster. The flat is quiet and if John would strain his hearing he can just about imagine the even, burring breaths that would be coming from Sherlock’s bedroom.  Sherlock must be having one of those rare nights where he is actually sleeping, which is unusual considering they just started a new case.

 

         John can still hear Glen Reese’s weeping sobs, and finally his senses kicks in. With a small curse, he grabs his jacket and hurries down the steps.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

         John is grateful that one of Sherlock’s various lessons on how to survive the “war in London” included knowing how to pick various types of locks and a rare gift of a set of lock picks (probably nicked).  He remembers quite vividly one rainy afternoon when Sherlock had timed him as he made his way through assorted types of doors and locks, and he feels a small satisfactory thrill when he has Glen Reese’s door open in less than a minute, the only witness to his crime an ornament cat made of stone.

 

         “Mr. Reese?” John calls out, but the flat is quiet and dark. In the living room two ginger cats watch him with wary skepticism from their perch on the sofa. The apartment feels cold and desolate and there’s a peculiar smell in the room that somehow reminds John of the basement library at university: musty and moldy, heavy with stale air that nobody has stirred in a decade.

 

         “Mr. Reese?” He calls again, stepping over the debris of what had obviously been a struggle.  A chair has been knocked over, two cups and a plate have been smashed on the floor, and a couple books yanked from their shelves.  He thinks that the mess seems strangely organized, much like Doctor Fenway’s office, as if somebody has systematically worked their way through the flat and purposefully knocked down whatever happened to be in their path in an effort to make it look like a random pattern of destruction.  John remembers Harriet’s flat after Clara left for the last and final time and how he’d been picking up books from the kitchen floor and broken plates in the bedroom. He somehow cannot help but to think that the mess resulting in the argument in Glen Reese’s flat looks staged.

 

         John performs the standard routine for checking an insurgent’s house, going through the rooms and checking behind the doors and every corner. He moves slowly through the apartment, never forgetting who Glen Reese’s Alpha is, and knowing he can’t really trust that Adrian Reese is actually gone.  The last thing he wants is to be caught breaking into his house in the middle of the night.  He makes his way slowly upstairs and spots a  sliver of faint light seeping out from under the door at the end of the hall.

 

         John pushes open the door and immediately years of medical trauma training take control.  In a second he’s assessed the room as being clear of any dangers and that Glen Reese lies pale and clammy at the bottom of the bathtub, like a terrible rendering of Ophelia’s death scene. His head is almost completely submerged, the tip of his mouth and nose barely above the waterline. John uses his formidable strength to haul him out of the water and is careful to support his neck and head as he lowers Glen Reese to the bathroom floor. He’s dressed in jeans and a knitted sweater that are waterlogged and heavy and have probably weighed him down. John feels around for a pulse relieved when he finds it, faint and thrumming against Glen Reese’s thick neck. He makes a note that the wound on the back of his head is still bleeding heavily, but he knows that head wounds always do.

 

         John scans the bathroom and finds a mobile phone on a stack of towels and he dials the emergency number while he tilts Glen Reese’s head to the side, allowing his mouth and nose to drain free of water before he turns it back to the center.

 

         “Emergency services, how can I be of assistance?”

 

         John quickly rattles off instructions and his location to the emergency services before he resumes first aid.  He lets his medical training move him through the motions of CPR while he counts off the compressions to the rhythm of _“Staying Alive.”_

 

         It seems like a long time, but John knows only seconds pass before Glen Reese gives a weak cough and splutters alive.  John rises slowly, wiping sweat from his face, his heart rate slowly decreasing to its normal rhythm as the adrenaline ebbs away. Glen Reese is going to be fine. Well, medically speaking, he cannot really say anything about his heart and head.

 

         He hears the approaching ambulance and suddenly freezes. Glen Reese is still wheezing on the floor and the ambulance personnel will be with him in a few moments. What John knows he should do is remain and give an account of what has happened and who Glen Reese is. They’ll ask him to join them at the hospital and give a report.  He knows that the police will get involved.

 

         John hasn’t done anything wrong, but Sherlock will put it all together and then he will know _everything._ John twists carefully out of the bathroom as two paramedics rush in and fall to their knees next to Glen Reese and he knows that the Omega is in safe their hands.

 

         He combs a hand through his hair and rests his back against the wall in the dark corridor.  Maybe it’s time to just tell Sherlock the truth.  He’s spending all this time and energy trying to circumvent Sherlock acknowledging John’s feelings. If either of them says it out loud, it becomes real and unavoidable and neither of them can pretend that they aren’t real. What if he just tells him he’s an Omega, what is the worst that can happen?

 

         He knows what will happen, Sherlock will conclude that John’s feelings are nothing more of a chemical defect that is occurring because Sherlock is an Alpha and John has been _programmed_ by nature to be attracted to him, to submit to him.

 

         But how could genetics be the cause of this weird throbbing in his heart? Would Sherlock really reject him over something in John’s DNA? Would he simply explain away John’s feeling to John being just an Omega who is reacting to an Alpha? What if he simply decides to dismiss John because he is “a victim to a chemical weakness”? The thought makes his stomach roll with dread and he tries to ignore the first stabs of panic that are making themselves known.  His mouth is dry and he swallows and swallows, his heart pounding in his chest and he has to grab hold of the wall to keep himself suspended upright.  His chest is painfully tight, it’s becoming difficulty to breathe, and the feeling of hysteria is so acute it takes all his willpower to not scramble out of the hallway and flee the scene.

_Steady on._

 

         His stomach tightens and sends queasiness pressing up his throat, warm and thick and heavy.  John knows this isn’t a standard reaction to potentially losing one’s friend and flatmate. It shouldn’t be this difficult and terrifying.  All this time and effort spent hanging on to his stance that he’s not gay and they aren’t a couple, that he’s not an Omega and he’s not attracted to Alpha Sherlock. He’s clung to his sense of who he is, and now, now _bloody hells_ …. now he is standing in Glen Reese’s corridor, outside the room where the Omega just tried to kill himself, and he’s finally  admitting to himself the feelings that have slowly ebbed over him, like the tide sneaking up on the unsuspecting beach dweller.

 

         John didn’t suddenly look at Sherlock one day, the two of them bent over a corpse, and feel his heart skip a beat or his breathe catch in his throat. He didn’t meet Sherlock’s thoughtful gaze in DI Lestrade’s office and feel his knees go weak. It wasn’t even seeing Sherlock lying slumped in his chair in the cold English sun, half-dressed in his robe and having everything slot into place.  He doesn’t even think it is because Sherlock is an Alpha and John an Omega and that it is by some design of nature.

 

         No, it was a gradual process, falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. A slow progression that happened over weeks and months until finally, after almost a year, when John finally admits that he is in love with Sherlock, he’s got no _bloody idea_ on what to do.  He’s rudderless and guideless.

 

         John steps outside of Glen Reese's apartment and into early hours of what is promising to be an unusually cold day.  The sun is sliding up behind the tall buildings, coloring the city with harsh, bleak colors.  All around him London is slowly coming alive with its lorries, black cabs, and the red buses, the lifelines of early commuters.

 

         John lingers on the sidewalk for several hesitant moments; he’s not sure where to go.  He should go back to Baker Street. He could pick up breakfast, some coffee and use that as an excellent excuse.  They could spend another stilted and tense breakfast together and then they would head down to the Yard and get the latest reports on Doctor Fenway's murder.

As John steps towards the tube station, a text ticks in from DI Lestrade, *Come to the Yard at once. Urgent.*

 

John stares at phone in his hands, knowing that this day is a long time coming, that he’s finally arrived at the place where is no more room for lies and nowhere to hide.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter has not been beta-read. I will upload the proper chapter as soon as it is completed.
> 
> My most sincere thanks goes out to all of you who read and review my story, I would love to get to know you guys on tumblr. You can find me under friolerofiction.

**Disclaimer:** I know nothing about the British judicial system or Scotland Yard, this is all constructed from my imagination (and what I’ve learned from British TV mysteries). I also fear that Anderson may be woefully out of character in this chapter, and for that I apologize.

This chapter contains quotes from ACD A Scandal in Bohemia

 

 

 

“Despite being considered aggressive, and if Unbounded, unstable, the Alphas are valued for their enhanced intellect and charisma. There has a few documented instances (L. Finkle et.al 1999 and M. Carter 2001) of Omegas possessing a keen sense of smell and hearing, to be better able to detect potential threats to their offspring.  Despite these skills, they are still considered by the majority of the population to be indecisive individuals who fully depend upon Alphas to dictate their actions. A common derogatory term for Omegas are “houseboys” or “bitch.” The most avid opposition to Omegas, William Randall, have described them as “dogs, always looking for their Alpha master to tell them when to sit, wait and rollover.” (Randall, W. The Omega Myth Free Press: 1990).  (Lee Finkle, A., _A Critical Analysis of the Alpha/Omega Relationship in Modern Media_.  A/O Press: 2009).

 

 

**Chapter 10.**

 

It’s not gone long past 6 am when John clips on his consultant identification and passes through the tall metal detectors. The security guard, a broad-shouldered woman with a mass of curls, gives him a bleary-eyed nod of recognition as John pockets his cellphone and wallet. The constable is apparently suffering from the start of what is going to be a lengthy day at work, and John offers a smile in sympathy. He has a feeling that his day will also be a long one.

 

The entry hall is empty, and the tall, metal roof sucks up the sound of his footsteps as he makes his way towards the staircase that will take him to DI Lestrade’s office on the second floor. John is grateful for the silence because it gives him the space to sort his scattered thoughts, to put everything in chronological order until it’s a neat, sensible, narrative. Though, even to himself his story just seems like a series of inexplicable events. If he hadn’t met Glen Reese, he would never have learned about that blasted book and wouldn’t have felt compelled to confront Doctor Fenway. If he hadn’t let his outrage for Doctor Fenway’s actions distract him, he might have picked up on some clue that would indicate that Doctor Fenway would end up dead just a few hours later.

 

John’s musings are interrupted by DI Lestrade, who suddenly appears at the top of the stairs, looking tired and agitated. John smiles thinly and raises his hand a little to draw the detective inspector’s attention. DI Lestrade glances about the hall for a moment before he spots John and hurries down the stairs to meet him. John’s smile wilts as soon as he sees the DI’s expression, and every nerve, cell, every molecule, in his body urges him to flee. John doesn’t run away, but he has to clutch the railing as his leg suddenly spasms in pain and threatens to give away.

 

Detective inspector Lestrade looks like he’s been conscripted to serve in John’s firing squad, his expression grim and despondent. John knows that he is too late, that they’ve identified his fingerprints at the crime scene, and they’ve talked to the witness who saw him arguing with Doctor Fenway. This is certainly going to complicate his explanation. He scrubs his hand over his face and straightens his posture; he wasn’t going to limp into this.

 

DI Lestrade doesn’t seem to notice, or pay any heed to John’s discomfort; he just beckons John to follow him with a curt nod of his head. Up close, John notices that DI Lestrade smells of the bitter coffee from a vending machine outside his office and stale cigarettes.  For a fleeting moment, John feels sympathy for the salt and pepper haired detective inspector because he carries the telltale signs of a long night spent with a cantankerous Sherlock Holmes.

 

   John suddenly feels foolish for imagining Sherlock asleep in his bed, Sherlock probably went to the Yard as soon as John bid him goodnight and has probably been working on Doctor Fenway’s case all night. What if he the one who identified John’s set of fingerprints? Had he suggested John as a prime suspect?  Would he lie to protect John? The thought makes his stomach coil in unease. Sherlock knows that John is capable of murder, what would he think about-

 

   -no. John cannot let his thoughts derail him. What was it Sherlock had said once. Something about not making theories before he had all the data, because then you’d twist your facts to suit your theory, instead of the theory to the facts.

 

   He takes a deep, steadying breath. He’s not a stranger to walking into conflict.

 

John clasps his hands at the small of his back and follows DI Lestrade across the empty hall to a corridor on the opposite end and down the grey linoleum floor that leads him to the interrogation rooms. He has trailed after Sherlock’s grand, sweeping, coat down this corridor  on their way to watch the police interrogate a suspect many times. 

 

This time the suspect is him.

 

“Detective inspector, I wanted to….” John starts, struggling to keep up with DI Lestrade’s long strides.

“You shouldn’t say anything, John.” DI Lestrade murmurs, casting a fleeting glance over his shoulder before he continues down the corridor.

 

“I was going to….” John tries again. “This is all….”

 

DI Lestrade stops suddenly and turns to look at John, his entire posture slumping as he releases a long contained sigh.

 

“John, maybe you should call your solicitor?” DI Lestrade says, his voice soft and almost regretful.

 

“No,” John says, “that won’t be necessary.” Calling his lawyer will just make everything more formal, and somehow, illogically, realer. Not to mention, the police will see it as a defensive move, and some would probably even see it as an admission of guilt.

 

“Everything….” John tries again, before deciding to heed  DI Lestrade´s advice and falls silent. He’ll get his chance to explain, to defend, himself.

 

DI Lestrade ushers John towards a small interrogation room and John falters in the doorway. There’s a sour tinge to the room, a sharp smell of anxiety and desperation. The most dominating scent is familiar scents of an Alpha; it clings like cat piss to the furniture in the room. The scent sends unpleasant shivers down his spine and the thundering rush of blood in his ears. Danger, his instincts yell at him, do not enter! John has to use all of his restraint to keep the Omega in him from fleeing this room. His palms are slick with sweat and for a second black spots dance in front of his visions. For Christ’s sake, he’s a soldier; he’s faced the torrent of bullets from enemy soldiers. He hates that he feels this way that some unfortunate twist of biology, of DNA, is making him visibly frightened of an empty room.

 

In the room, there are two metal chairs, a slim table between them and a recording device along the far end of the wall. On the left side of the wall is what John recognizes from being on the other side of it: a one-way mirror. He knows, without a doubt that Sherlock is on the other side, studying him.  John wonders what sight he must be, trembling in fright, his clothes in disarray, the slight limp to his gait and his left-hand clenching and unclenching. What is Sherlock deducing from this?

 

DI Lestrade gestures John to the cold, hard chair the suspects always sit in, the one facing the mirror. He slides onto the chair and folds his hands on the table, willing himself to stare into the mirror and lock eyes with the invisible Sherlock Holmes on the other side.  John refuses to let his instincts make a coward out of him.

 

“A moment, please, Doctor Watson,” DI Lestrade says, and the formality of the statement does nothing to calm John’s frayed nerves. John forces a tight smile and the detective inspector leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds far too final.

 

John twiddles his thumbs, waiting, trying again to form his explanation into coherent sentences. He thinks about his sessions with Doctor Fenway, how he helped him navigate the bureaucracy and legal red tape that would have kept him out of the military career he had sought and prepared for all his life. How he helped John hide that he is an Omega and gave him access to the medication that would stop him from experiencing embarrassing and painful Heats ever few weeks. Doctor Fenway guided John through the biological changes in his body, put names on and discussed the many thoughts and feelings that sometimes overwhelmed him.

 

Then he wrote it all down and intended to publish it for the world to read.

 

John thinks about Glen Reese coming to 221B with the wretched book that sent John running down to Doctor Fenway, who, rather than trying to placate him riled him up with his taunts.

 

All John had wanted was to be left alone with his life and to keep his biology a secret.

 

   John doesn’t know how long he sits there, waiting and staring, but he suspects that almost half-hour passes before the door to the interrogation opens, and DI Dregs steps in, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of papers clutched under his armpit. The scent of coffee is poignant, but subtle when compared to the spicy aftershave DI Dregs seems to have bathed himself in. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that plays homage to a band that John has never heard of, but that seems to have attached themselves to the symbolism of skulls and snakes. John is surprised at the lax attire and wonders if DI Dregs has chosen it to settle or unsettle the people he interrogates.

 

"Doctor Watson,"  Detective inspector Dregs says with firm authority and the sound of it makes John struggle to his feet as if to offer to shake the DI’s hands or relieve him of the burdens of papers. He’s not sure which. DI Dregs ignores John’s attempt at formality and hooks an ankle around the empty chair and drags it a little away from the table. He slides into it with ease, placing the papers on the edge of the table and balancing the cup of coffee in his hands as he crosses one leg over the other. He takes a sip of his coffee, studying John with cold, calculating eyes and John suddenly feels like he’s been cast in the role of the mouse against the snake.

 

John sinks slowly down into his seat, lacing his hands on the table again. He recognizes what DI Dregs is trying to do with his silence; he’s hoping John will say something, anything, to fill it. But John is familiar with interrogation techniques and doesn’t intend to fall for one of the oldest one in the book.

 

The silence stretches on, and DI Dregs keeps sipping his coffee, and John keeps twiddling his thumbs, trailing his gaze about the room to disguise how uncomfortable he is with being in an enclosed space with the detective inspector. John scratches the bridge of his nose. The smell of the aftershave is almost strong enough to make his eyes water, and the scent does nothing to mask the Alpha smell in the room. It seems to seep into his very pores, though, unlike Sherlock’s smell, this scent makes his skin itch and crawl like he's got maggots wriggling under his clothes.

 

Finally, DI Dregs reaches the bottom of his cup, and he sets it on the table and grabs the folder on the top of the pile. He uncrosses and crosses his legs. John smiles stiffly. The detective inspector taps his fingers in an erratic rhythm against the top of the table. John purses his lips and gives the narrow tiles of the roof unwarranted attention. DI Dregs caresses his mustache slowly with a finger while he browses the content of the file for several long moments in what John thinks is a last ditch effort to get him to speak. Finally, after several long seconds, DI Dregs decides to change his tactic.

 

“Doctor Watson,” DI Dregs and the tone of his voice betrays his calm exterior.

 

John doesn’t want to be rattled, but the Omega in him is, and no matter how hard John tries to suppress the notion, he cannot stop himself from shifting nervously on his chair and keeping his eyes from darting at the door.

 

“Should I have my solicitor?” John asks, glad that at least his voice sounds steady.

 

“You are not accused of anything,” comes the dry reply from DI Dregs, the unspoken “yet” lingering behind.

 

“Doctor Watson,” Detective Dregs continues, “please detail your relationship with the late Doctor George Fenway.”

 

John has learned that the police doesn’t ask questions they don’t already suspect they have the answer to. What they try to do, is trying to catch people lying. He supposes the best thing is to stick to short and simple answers to make things as uncomplicated as possible.

 

“He was one of my tutors at university,” John says calmly. “And he is…was quite renewed in his field of specialty.”

 

“Alphas and Omegas,” Detective Dregs states.

 

“Their physiology and psychology.”

 

“Did you know Doctor Fenway outside his capacity as one of your tutors at university?”

 

“Yes,” John replies.

 

“In what way?” DI Dregs leans slightly across the table, and the smell of his aftershave resumes their assault on John’s senses.

 

John studies his hands for a moment, trying to figure out how to formulate a lifetime of acquaintanceship in one sentence.

 

“In his professional capacity,” John answers.

 

“Have you ever been in Doctor Fenway's office?"

 

"Yes," John repeats.

 

"Recently?"

 

"Well, I was on the crime scene just yesterday," John adds with a little half smile.

 

DI Dregs ignores John’s attempt at levity.   “You were, of course, adhering to the strict, standard, crime scene procedure, so there is no reason your fingerprints should be on Doctor Fenway's desk and filing cabinets."

 

While John is formulating his response, the door opens, and Anderson walks in. He is immaculately dressed in a pressed suit and tie so crisp John thinks the outfit might stand on its own. Anderson smells heavily of perfume as if he’s spent the night on the ground floor of Debenhams and sprayed himself with every free sample available. The unpleasant mixture of scents makes John visibly recoil. Anderson watches him and grins, a smile that is all shark teeth. The transformation is so startling that John momentarily doesn’t know how to respond.

 

"Doctor Watson," Anderson acknowledges.

 

"Anderson," he responds lightly, gritting his teeth and refusing to be intimidated by Anderson of all people. He suspects Sherlock would never forgive him.

 

Anderson is holding a clear evidence bag and inside it is a slender book with a paper cover. He is still smiling, and John suddenly feels like he's suspended on the edge of a panic attack, he can feel his breath lodge in his throat and his blood rushing from his head. For a moment, he’s just one terrifying heartbeat away scouring away and curl up, hyperventilating, in the corner of the interrogation room.

 

John grants himself two seconds to panic, before he reels in his emotions and locks them away somewhere deep and dark in his mind. He can feel his left hand still on the table, and the dull ache from his leg seep away. He looks at the book with glacial calm, his expression even and controlled.

 

The name "David" is written clearly on the front of the book with smears of blood visible on the edges. Anderson gives the bag a little teasing rattle, like John is a kid, and Anderson is holding a goodie bag just out of his reach.

 

 

The last time John saw that wretched book was in his kitchen when Glen Reese brought it to him. Which means that Glen Reese has, after visiting John, returned the book to Doctor Fenway. There’s nothing immediately suspicious about that; Glen Reese could have dropped it off after he left Baker Street. John wonders who was able to identify the David in the book as John Watson.

 

For once, he hopes it was Donovan, or even Anderson, and not Sherlock.

 

“Doctor Watson. This book was recovered from the locked desk in Doctor Fenway’s office. Is there any reason your fingerprints should be on this book?”

 

“I read it, two days ago,” John says slowly, “it was given to me by a man named Glen Reese who wanted me to share my thoughts on it.”

 

“Your thought?” Anderson exclaims as if the mere notion that John should have any thoughts of value is absurd.

 

“How did Mr. Reese come to be in possession of this book?” DI Dregs asks, completely ignoring Anderson’s outburst.

 

“Mr. Reese told me that Doctor Fenway had given it to him for his perusal, to get his insight on the topic before he continued to edit it for publishing.”

 

DI Dregs scribbles a few notes on a piece of paper and hands it off to Anderson. Anderson only stares at it, before curling it into a tight ball in is fist, but he makes no motion to move.

 

“And how did you become acquainted with Mr. Reese?” DI Dregs asks. He drags his chair even closer to the table so that his long legs stretches out under the table, almost touching John’s who immediately pulls back and his instinct to flee rattles against their cage. Suddenly, there’s a loud crash on the other side of the mirror and all eyes turn to it to see it vibrating angrily. It lasts for only a second before it falls still, and the noise on the other end of it grows to an angry murmur that John can barley distinguish as DI Lestrade’s baritone voice.

 

“I met him a few weeks ago on a case.” John takes a breath, glancing away from the one-way mirror. “Sherlock Holmes would be able to confirm this.”

 

John is suddenly picturing Glen Reese’s soggy form on the floor of his pink bathroom, struggling for his life.

 

Bloody hell.

 

He doesn’t want to expose him to DI Dregs and Anderson, but he will need his testimony to clear his name.

 

“Why would Doctor Fenway value the opinion of Mr. Reese on his work? And for that matter, why did Mr. Reese believe that you could shed some insight on this book? As far as I am aware you have no experience, beyond that required of a general practitioner, on Alphas and Omegas.”

 

Well, John thinks. This is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Here it is, the poetic point of no return. His fingers uncurl against the smooth surface of the table allowing the cold metal leech away some of his nervousness.

 

“As for Doctor Fenway’s reasons to include Mr. Reese into this particular academic publication, you would best ask Mr. Reese,” John answers evenly. He scrubs his hands over his face and releases an explosive sigh. “Mr. Reese thought that….” But he doesn’t get to finish before Anderson suddenly slams his hands into the table and exclaims gleefully.

 

“You're an Omega!” Anderson’s smile is an ugly, uneven thing. “You’re the Omega in this book,” he waves the evidence bag with the book in it about like a victory flag. “You are David! Doctor Fenway was about to publish a book that would expose your secret to the world and so you killed him to keep his silence." Anderson slams the accusation down as if they're playing poker, and he has just laid down the winning hand.

 

“I did not kill Doctor Fenway,” John says calmly, his fingers curling against the table, tethering him to the furniture and keeping him from leaping at Anderson and wiping the smirk off his face.

 

   John has almost forgotten that DI Dregs is still in the room and is startled by his irritated snort and the deadly glare he sends to Anderson though it does little to dampen his triumphant grin.

 

"But you don't deny that you're an Omega!” Anderson crows, spraying John with spit.

 

John can feel his cheeks redden; defiance curling along his spine, and it takes visible effort to regain his equanimity.

 

“Now, listen here, Anderson.” John starts, only to be interrupted again, this time by DI Dregs, who steps forward and curls a hard hand around Anderson’s shoulder. John can see Anderson’s poorly concealed wince of pain as DI Dregs says in a low, tight voice.

 

“That is quite enough from you, Mr. Anderson. You have your instructions, best see to them to them like a good lad.” DI Dregs yanks the evidence bag from Anderson’s hands and drops it carelessly on the table in front of John.

 

Anderson is vibrating with rage, and he stares at DI Dregs, speechless, his mouth open with wrath.  For several seconds, the two stare at each other and John can feel the room grow tight and hot with suspense and for a brief second it looks as if the two policemen will settle their difference with a physical display of might. John can see DI Dreg’s knuckles turn white, and Anderson straightens his posture before he yanks himself free of the detective inspector’s grasp. He stalks towards the door, kicks it open and slams it shut so hard that the windowpane in it rattles.

 

Several long minutes of silence follows while DI Dregs stalks about the room, pausing to stare through the one-way mirror. His hands clasped at his lower back, and he’s balancing at the balls of his heels as he speaks.

 

“When did Mr. Reese show you this book?”

 

John uses a fingertip to twist the book around so that it is lying straight in front of him, the lean handwriting of Doctor Fenway in stark contrast to the splatters of blood.

 

He frowns.

 

If they found the book in Doctor Fenway’s locked desk, why is there blood on it? If the book had been damaged while Doctor Fenway was being tortured, why had Doctor Fenway sought it necessary to hide the book from his assailant? If the book is what they had been after, surely they would have seen it, sitting right there on his desk?

 

“Doctor Watson, please answer the question!” DI Dregs says sharply, ripping John from his musings.

 

“The day before last.” John murmurs.

 

“The day before the night Doctor Fenway was murdered,” DI Dregs confirms.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And this Mr. Reese came to your apartment. Uninvited? You were alone at the time?”

 

“Yes. I hadn’t seen him since….well; I hadn't seen him in many weeks,” John clears his throat. “He just came over with the book and handed it to me. Wanted me to read it.”

 

“When did Mr. Reese show you this book?” DI Dregs repeats.

 

“He thought that the character Doctor Fenway was writing about was based on me.” John murmurs, his eyes flickering up to stare at the invisible spectator on the other side of the mirror.

 

“And is it?” DI Dregs asks.

 

John cannot help but grimace as he reaches out and pushes the evidence bag away.

 

“Mr. Reese was convinced it was.” Is all John says.

 

DI Dregs turns and scrutinizes John with calm, cold eyes, a look that plainly tells John that he understands what John is not saying. The tall man moves with fluid confidence across the room and resumes his seat in front of the table, his hands landing inches away from John’s who pulls back, tucking his hands under his armpits, making a physical barrier between himself and DI Dregs.

 

“What happened during Mr. Reese’s visit?”

 

“Nothing much. We talked for a bit. Shared a lunch Mr. Reese had brought, and then he took the book with him and left.” John replies.

 

“And what time was this?”

 

John thinks back to the day of Glen Reese’s visit. So much had happened since then that it felt like it was months ago.  In the end, however, he concludes, “sometimes a bit after 2.pm, I think. My phone records will show exactly when the call was made.”

 

“What did you do after Mr. Reese departed?”

 

He lowers his gaze and studies the state of his shoes while he gathers his thoughts. He keeps his voice steady when he replies because he knows his silence will soon become its own response.

 

“I called Doctor Fenway. I told him I wanted to talk with him.”

 

“Hmhm. The transcript from Doctor Fenway’s telephone records shows that yours was the last call received.” DI Dregs says, mostly to himself. “And was Doctor Fenway receptive to your request?” DI Dregs crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the chair until it’s in danger of tipping over. He spreads his long limbs as if his goal is to take up as much space as possible, crowding in on John.  The detective inspector is trying to rattle him, and John hates that it is working; he hunches his shoulders and lower his gaze.

 

“Yes, but not until the evening. I agreed to meet him at his office at 10.pm.”

 

“And you held this agreement,” DI Dregs says and it is a statement, not a question.

 

“Yes. I went over to his office at the appointed time.” John adds.

 

“How did Doctor Fenway seem to you when you arrived?”

 

John sighs, resting his chin against his chest, his fingers drumming against his arms as he considers the question. He’s wondering how to convey Doctor Fenway’s eccentric behavior. The anxious feeling in the office, Doctor Fenway’s unexplained hostility and rant.

 

“He seemed….restless.” John settles for. “He was pacing the office.”

 

DI Dregs curls his long arms over the desk and grabs his notebook from where it is resting next to the evidence bag. He scribbles a few notes and then looks at John expectantly and John hurries to comply.

 

“We…talked.”

 

“Oh, I believe you did far more than just talk. We have witness who testifies hearing raised voice from Doctor Fenway’s office on the night of his death. ” DI Dregs studies John, searching for a crack in John's defense.

 

“Yes.” John fixes his gaze somewhere over DI Dregs right shoulder to an invisible spot on the mirror. He knows what is coming now, what DI Dregs have been building up to.

 

“We had ethical and judicial differences. ” John concedes. “It escalated to a loud argument.”

 

“Ethical and judicial difference?” DI Dregs arches a brow in a way that tells John he isn’t buying his story.

 

John wipes a hand across his face again and then pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the first tentative throbs of a full on headache making its presences known behind his eyes. He wants to go home, and he wants to leave behind this small, cramped room with DI Dregs and his wretched aftershave. He wants to sink into his armchair with a good cup of tea and maybe, just maybe; Sherlock would play something for him.  Well, not for him. But he’d be playing, and John would be listening and pretending.

 

But he’s here, and he needs to finish this because he’d promised himself no more hiding.

 

“It regarded doctor and patient confidentiality,” John adds with a sigh.

 

“Your doctor and patient confidentiality? Doctor Fenway was your physician, was he not?” DI Dregs asks blandly.

 

“No. Yes. No. I mean.” John shakes his head a little before dragging his gaze away from the mirror and forcing himself to look at DI Dregs.  “It was about his lack of confidentiality of his patients. He was publishing case studies about his patients without their consent.”

 

“Including yours?”

 

“Everyone’s.” John grits his teeth.

 

“And did this argument escalate to a physical confrontation?”

 

“I was upset.…I slammed my fist at his desk and the filing cabinets, which is how my fingerprints got there. But I left right after that woman interrupted us.”

 

“How did you feel about Doctor Fenway’s plan to publish your medical history, your life story as an Omega for everybody to read?” DI Dregs says. He leans across the table, grabbing John’s attention and holding it.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Nothing,” DI Dregs says. “This man was about to reveal your secret-“ John is about to protest, but DI Dregs continues unheeding. “There is no need to play coy, Doctor Watson, and it is always a secret. Nobody ever wants the world to know they are an old evolutionary brood bitch.”

 

“Now, listen…” John starts calmly.

 

“You didn’t go there to argue legality and ethics.” DI Dregs continues, stretching his body across the table until his long legs brushes against John’s shoes. The touch is barley tactual, but it is enough to send unpleasant shivers along the back of his legs to the base of his spine. John presses his lips together to a thin line and yanks his shoes away from DI Dregs’s presence.

 

“I certainly didn’t go there to murder him.” John bites.

 

“Some would say that Omegas are incapable of violence, but we all know that is not true of Doctor John Watson, Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan. Wounded in combat and discharged with honors. Tell me, Doctor Watson,  do you still have your military issue sidearm?”

 

“There was a bit of an argument regarding his intentions, but I didn’t kill the man!” John snarls. He knows he’s loosing his calm and is in danger of rushing headfirst into a conflict with DI Dregs.

 

“Mhmhm.” Is all the detective inspector offers. “You’re claiming that Doctor Fenway was alive when you left his office.”

 

“Very much alive!” John exclaims. “That book” he  scoffs at the wretched thing, pushing it at DI Dregs.  “I didn’t even see it at the office when I was there.”

 

“Perhaps that is why you tortured Doctor Fenway before killing him, you were hoping he would give up the location of the book. You wanted to stop him from exposing you.” DI Dregs pushes himself slowly out of his chair and looms over the table. John bites back a vitriolic response, but he doesn’t want to let DI Dregs try to rile him up with his blatant display of dominating body language. He forces the chair back and stands up, though even pulling himself to his full height he barley reaches DI Dregs’ shoulder.

 

“This is absurd.” John balls his hands into fists. “I've told you that Doctor Fenway was alive when I left him.”

 

“Your Sherlock Holmes,” DI Dregs moves slowly around the table as if John is a skittish animal that may bolt if he makes any sudden movement. “Said that whoever was there knew what they were looking for that the destruction of the office was just a ruse, a poorly made one. The assistant told us that your file was the only one that cannot be accounted for.” DI Dregs caresses his mustache with a finger, a slim smile at John.

 

There are several things with that statement that John wishes he had time to think about, but DI Dregs is moving towards him, and his Omega instinct is rattling against their imprisonment with renewed force. 

 

John swallows tightly and says in a low, defiant tone, “are you going to charge me with something, if not I think I’d rather get going.”

 

Quick as a viper, DI Dregs reaches out and snags John’s wrist in a vice like grip. The action is so unexpected that for a second John remains rooted, helpless, on the spot before his instincts kicks free, and he tries to tug his arm loose. DI Dregs’ grip remains firm, and he pulls John closer until he can feel his putrid breath spill over him. John curls his shoulders in defense, lowering his head like a turtle.

 

Whatever detective inspector Dregs is about to say, drowns in the slam of the door that is suddenly pushed open. Sherlock rushes into the room closely followed by DI Lestrade, who is feebly clutching at Sherlock's elbow in an attempt to restrain him.  DI Dregs suddenly lets go of John’s arm, as if he’s been burned, and John immediately moves towards Sherlock. The response is automatic; he cannot stop himself from wanting to be closer to the Alpha. Sherlock’s eyes are stormy, anger flaring in them, bright and deadly. His arm slams across John’s chest forcing John into the corner of the room, behind his back, and separating him from DI Dregs and Lestrade.

 

“John,” Sherlock snarls, “do not say anything.”

 

John feels his chest warms for a moment at Sherlock’s protective display, and a stupid smile makes it ways to his face despite his best efforts to remain stoic.

 

DI Dregs makes another move towards John, and for a second John thinks he hears Sherlock all, but growl, a sound that is all black ice, an invisible and deadly threat. It sends heat cascading down his spine and settle somewhere in his groin. He has to hold himself back from wrapping himself up against Sherlock’s back and sneak his arms around his waist and just press his chest to Sherlock’s spine until there’s not an inch separating them.

 

But Sherlock pierces him with sharp, cold look before he averts his gaze, his posture angry and taunt. John feels his heart sink and his desire falter. He realizes that Sherlock is only unconsciously responding to his pheromones; it’s his Alpha that is acting protective and dominate, not Sherlock.

 

Bugger this, John thinks. He feels foolish for being herded into the corner like a damsel in distress. He grabs at Sherlock’s sleeve to push the taller man away, but Sherlock remains a rigid barrier between John and DI Dregs.

 

“You,” Sherlock snarls, his hackles rising as he jabs a finger at the detective inspector. “Do not touch him.”

 

DI Dregs’s lips curls into a feral smile. “Interesting.”

 

“What the bloody hell is going on.” DI Lestrade demands, his hands on his hips like an affronted maiden.

 

“I told you not to let this” Sherlock gestures dismissively to DI Dregs. ”Interview John.”

 

John stares at DI Dregs, various clues slowly slotting into place.

 

“He’s an Alpha as well.” John is almost dizzy with the implication. The unnatural amount of the spicy aftershave, he was trying to mask his scent. The dominant display of his body language. Trying to touch John. Everything he’s done has been an effort to make John submit to him without John knowing what he was reacting to.

 

“I’m not sure why that is relevant….” DI Lestrade combs a hand through his hair glancing at each the men in turn. John feels his chin grow warm with sudden embarrassment.

 

“It means,” John starts.

 

“It means that little Doctor Watson here,” DI Dregs grins and folds his arms over his chest “is the live in houseboy of Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John hasn’t actually seen Sherlock fight before, but he had always imagined his movements to be as graceful and lithe as the rest of him. He’s seen Sherlock move with feline grace across rooftops, walls and fences, as though he’s been a professional parkourer all his life. This, however, is the response of a cornered animal. Sherlock throws himself at DI Dregs with flailing fists and hissing growls, every punch and swing uncoordinated and fueled by instinct and adrenaline.

 

DI Dregs is no better; he grabs hold of the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and tries to hoist him from the ground only to have the consulting detective rake his nails across his chin. He hisses in pain and with a vicious bark DI Dregs reaches for Sherlock’s throat. John remembers the vice like grip of DI Dregs hand around his wrist, and he dreads the damage they might do to Sherlock’s delicate neck.

 

“Christ!” DI Lestrade cries and launches himself at DI Dregs, only to be repaid by the sharp jab of an elbow against his stomach.

 

“Ugh, bloody hell!” He curls in on himself, clutching a hand defensively around his stomach.

 

For once, John thinks blithely, being an Omega is a characteristic that will work to his advantage. Alphas might fight over him, but they won’t risk harming him.

 

“Now, look here.” John snaps with all the authority he can muster. He steps in between the two men, locked in a scuffle that is mostly flailing arms and angry growls. He pushes the two apart and standing between them, and he spreads his hands, holding both at bay.

 

“Stop it. Now.”

 

DI Dregs wipes spit from the corner of his mouth, and John can feel the heaving rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest against the palm of his hand. John would like nothing more than to maintain the contact, but he makes his hand drop.

 

“That is.” John struggles for breath a moment “quite enough. From the both of you.” He looks over to DI Lestrade, who is regaining his composure and glaring daggers at Sherlock and DI Dregs.

 

“You’re the last person to call him, the last one seen on the surveillance cameras entering Doctor Fenway’s department.” Detective inspector Dregs huffs a laugh.

 

“This is absurd; I’ve nothing to do with Doctor Fenway´s death,”  John repeats.

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade lets out a long suffering sigh “John; I´m sorry, but-“

 

“You’ve got to be joking,” John tries one of his regular, careless grins, but it quickly loses its shape. He huffs a frustrated laugh and spreads his hands helplessly. “Fine, fine.”

 

John looks to Sherlock, but Sherlock twists his head away, refusing to meet his gaze. His shoulders are hunched, and John can almost smell the tension and unease radiating off his shoulders, thick as the smog of London.

 

“I’ve nothing to do with Doctor Fenway’s murder. Either arrest me or let me go.” John mutters harshly, but there´s no real heat to his words.

 

“Very well,” Detective Inspector Dregs says with unmasked glee.

 

“Doctor John Watson. I am placing you under arrest for the suspicion of the murder of Doctor George Fenway. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something, which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

 

DI Dregs moves forward, intent on taking John by the shoulder, but Sherlock raises his gaze, his eyes brimming with danger. “You’re not touching him.”

 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Really.” John says calmly, anything to stop the two Alphas from jumping at each other again. “I’ll go with DI Lestrade.”

 

DI Lestrade looks wearily resigned when he beckons John to follow him down the stairs. John knows it´s hopeless, but he still searches for one last glimpse of Sherlock, finally, finally catching his gaze.

 

The seconds that followed feels like a small forever. Their eyes hold, and John knows his betrays everything, his feelings laid bare for everyone in the room. John reaches out, and his warm fingers encircle Sherlock’s wrists until he can feel the Alpha relax. He slowly drags his palm over the knobby bones of Sherlock’s hand until their fingers touch and lock. Sherlock twists and looks at John, his eyes are blazing and possessive, and he reaches out to take hold of John’s shoulder with his free hand.

 

"Do you see, John?" he asks, small and tight, and John is perfectly aware that the question is nowhere near as straightforward as it sound.

 

John can feel heart dip, and he swallows and swallows before he merely nods and looks away. With one final squeeze of Sherlock’s fingers, he brushes softly past him to follow DI Lestrade.

 

 

 

"Thank you for being a good sport about this," DI Lestrade says mildly, while detective inspector Dregs only grunts, before he goes down another corridor while DI Lestrade gently leads him down the same corridor John walked down early this morning.

 

“I’m sorry for…ah, Anderson and DI Dregs,” DI Lestrade adds bitterly. “I’ll make sure they are written up for their unprofessional and, frankly, unethical behavior.”

 

John bites the inside of his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. "Sure." John agrees.

 

He’s taken down to processing and a tall woman with tiny eyes and the inability to smile takes his information down into a book. John empties his pockets of various keys, his phone, oyster card and a small box of breath mints that he always carries. Everything goes into a little brown bag and John signs for the content. The female constable asks him to hand over his belt and shoelaces and collects his jacket and scarf. He’s photographed from every angle and finally, as if this is all the scene from a bad police movie, they take his fingerprints.

 

DI Lestrade then leads him over to a small cell in the far corner of a long corridor. He can hear one guy whistling wolfishly as he walks past while two other inmates are more focused on cursing DI Lestrade and his family line.

 

“Look” DI Lestrade says, “Sherlock will be all over this and have you cleared in a couple of hours.”

 

John enters the small cell and looks about it a little helplessly, uncertain of what to do with himself and in the end he decides just to stand in the middle of the tiny room.

 

“And meanwhile, I have to remain here?”

 

“Well, there’s a risk of evidence being destroyed and….”

 

“Bloody hell” John folds his arms over his chest.

 

“No more than a day, I bet,” DI Lestrade adds, trying to sound optimistic, but somehow failing miserably. John can only huff in annoyance.

 

“And you’ll probably have the best solicitor in Britain visiting you in a couple of hours.”

 

John isn’t all that hopeful that Sherlock is feeling desperate enough to ask his brother for help.

 

“Unless you want to call one now?”

 

“Yes," John sighs. 

 

"I'll make sure you get your phonecall."

 

DI Lestrade seems hesitant to leave John. He hunches his shoulders and scratches at his five o'clock shadow, seeming to search for his words before he settles on. “Is there anything I can get you?”

 

“Yes,” John says, turning away to hide his expression from the detective inspector. “I’ll need my suppressants.”

 

“What?”

 

“They are in a bottle marked vitamin B in the second shelf from the left in our bathroom,” John explains.

 

“Well, I’ll try to have them over by tomorrow…”

 

“No,” John says firmly. “I need them now. Or it….it will be….” He struggles to finish the sentence, it’s one thing that DI Lestrade now knows he’s an Omega, he really doesn’t want to bring up the subject of Heats.

 

“You’ll want to do as he says.” A languish voice says from the cell opposite his and John suddenly thinks it sounds strangely familiar. The man, however, is curled around a book, his back to bars.

 

“How many Alphas do you have in this station? Scotland Yard is relatively significant, you have what, a couple of thousand employees working here. I am betting there is at least four maybe five Alphas in this building at all time.”

 

“Be quiet.” John growls.

 

“This Omega here is Unbound and very, very tempting. When he goes into Heat, he’ll attract them like flies to honey, or some more fitting allegory.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“I can just picture the headlines.” The voice pauses for dramatic effect. “Suspect Attacked by Police Officers While in Custody.”

 

DI Lestrade visibly cringes while John does his best to hide his blush in the collar of his shirt.

 

“Or, even better.” The voice continues unheedingly, “Omega Sexually Assaulted by Gang of Alpha Police Officers. That is going to be one for the media to regurgitate for weeks. It’s been so long since there’s been an incident of an Alpha assaulting anybody; people have almost forgotten that they aren’t dangerously unstable individuals.”

 

DI Lestrade mutters a curse under his breath and then turns to John again.

 

“I’ll be back with them in a few hours with your medicine.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

DI Lestrade closes the heavy door, and John takes a seat on the cold metal bench. He folds his hands in his lap and watches DI Lestrade disappear down the corridor.

 

“You didn’t have to say that…”John mutters, mostly to himself.

 

He sighs heavily and stares at his palm; he can still feel the imprint of Sherlock’s hand against his, his smooth skin and the sharp edges of his bones against his palm.

 

What was it John was supposed to see? That it wasn’t real affection, that Sherlock was just acting on instincts and impulses that he could not control? That it was John’s pheromones that sent him running into the interrogation room to John’s rescue?

 

Or was he supposed to see that the sentiment was real that he cared for John like John cared for him?

 

Not for the first time John wishes he had Sherlock’s power of observation.

 

He twists onto the bench and curls up, his back to the room and his hand over his head to protect his eyes from the harsh light in the cell. He feels tired, drained in a way he hasn’t felt since he did his first field surgery, trying to push intestines back into the screaming American, who had been hit by shrapnel.

 

“Well, it’s true.” The man finally says. “You’ll go into Heat, and those bars won’t do anything to protect you from the Alphas in this station, I mean, they all have the keys and authority.”

 

John doesn’t respond, and he forces his eyes shut and wills himself to sleep. For a moment, the silence from the other end makes John think that guy in the other prison cell has abandoned the conversation.

 

“You know, I didn’t think we’d meet again like this. It’s such a funny old world.”

 

John feels his heart leap in his chest, and he’s on his legs in one heartbeat. The man across from him is leaning casually against the bars, his head cocked and his arms folded across his chest and a wry smile plastered on his face.

 

“Mister….no, my apologies. Doctor Watson. John Watson.”

 

Christ. John growls, as if this day couldn’t get any worse, how could coincidences could be so cruel as to place the one person he never wanted to see again just a few feet away from him.

 

“Adrian Reese.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately my beta has a hectic RL, and so this chapter is unbetaed. 
> 
> I've spent about three months on this chapter, because finding SH's was such a daunting and difficult task. I hope I've managed to maintain some of the character's integrity. There is a bit of a jump in time, but I hope it is not too confusing.
> 
> My warmest and most sincere and heartfelt thanks to all of you who read, kudos and comments on my story. You brighten my day when it's gloomy and inspire me to keep writing when I just want to give up. Thank you.

Disclaimer: This chapter contains quotes and references from The Hound of Baskerville, both the book by ACD and the BBC episode and ACD's A Case of Identity, Sign of Four and the BBC's The Empty Hearse. And probably some other episodes.

 

 

“Jacob would often lament  that he was unable to find intellectual stimulation among his peers or any academic challenges from his tutors. This feeling is not uncommon for Alphas and probably one of the major reasons they are often drawn to high-risk occupations, they are thrill seekers. It is probably why Jacob concocts these elaborate schemes he plays on people. He complains that people were small-minded, that they lived in their little bubble, are unable to see, to comprehend, the world around them and that he quickly grows bored with their company.

 

Jacob was in his early twenties the first time he approached me on the subjects of Omegas. He wondered if they were as dull as the media generally portray them, and why nature would “design me in such a way that I would want to chain myself to such a witless creature?”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       (Personal notes by Fenway, G. **_“Case-study of an Alpha”_** 1998.)

 

 

 

**Chapter 11.**

 

 

Sherlock feels John slowly step away from him, and he thinks he can feel the air rush in to fill the vacuum, cold and odorless. He finds himself touching his hand, the hand John touched and where he can still feel the imprint of John’s fingers against his. It’s utterly illogical that John’s absence should manifest in any physical way, and he detests this inane Alpha instinct that makes him want to reach out and grab John’s arm and let nobody take him away from him. It’s the same instinct that made him want to squeeze the life out Dregs just for touching John. The desire is still there, simmering below the surface, hot and possessive. 

 

He doesn’t want to think about these feelings John is conjuring in him. He doesn’t want to study them and name them. Emotions are antagonistic to clear reasoning, and he needs everything to be clear so he can get John out of this situation

 

Dregs is still watching him, dark eyes measuring as if he’s calculating his odds against Sherlock and naming himself the victor. He grins a smile that is all teeth and chill politeness. He turns and walks out of the room, his back to Sherlock, unafraid and uncaring. Whistling, low and off key and every note grates on the last restraints of Sherlock’s calm.

 

Sherlock waits until he’s certain he won’t accidentally run into Dregs in the corridor before he stalks out the Yard.  Experience with standard investigation procedure tells him that it will not take Dregs long to get a warrant to search their apartment for the murder weapon. They cannot be allowed to find the gun.  There are plenty of things there that won’t help John’s case if they are discovered.

 

The first cab stops at his command, and he slips into the backseat after quickly instructing the driver to their destination.

 

In the quiet backseat of the cab, somehow, illogically empty, without John, he feels oddly tense and brittle, like the first warning drums of a sheet of ice, cracking and breaking apart. He forces the feelings aside, pushing it deep down where he doesn't need to examine it. He can delete it later.

 

 

It’s almost  noon by the time the cab stops outside his flat.  He hasn't slept or eaten in 24hrs. If John were here, he would nag him to take some sustenance, but John isn’t here, and so Sherlock decides to ignore his body’s demands.

 

He has plenty of experience in doing so. It’s just transport after all.

 

 

Sherlock takes the seventeen steps up to 221B, two at a time, and completely ignores Mrs. Hudson’s worried “Is everything all right, dear? Where is John?” as he passes. He can’t be bothered to alleviate Mrs. Hudson’s worries. (She’ll just demand that he do what he intends to do, and there’s no time to deal with unnecessary details of explaining them to her.)

 

He hurries up the second set of stairs to John’s door and pulls it door open without ceremony. He hasn’t entered John’s room since John announced that he wanted to move out, (perhaps if he let John have some privacy, he wouldn’t need to seek it in a different apartment.) John’s room is neat and bland, like it’s been taken straight from a furniture catalogue. Sherlock studies the room, ignoring overwhelming presences of John’s fragrance that lingers on every piece of furniture, strongest by the bed. Faint tinge of Earl Grey, Head and Shoulders shampoo, warm wool and cotton and that unique, scintilla of something that he had never been able to identify from his Scent Catalogues.

 

It is always the little thing, those minute details that the untrained eye would ignore that are infinitely the most important ones.

 

He notices an overturned glass of water on John’s bedside table. The water has run along the edge of the table and onto the floor, leaving a damp patch in the carpet. The bed is unmade, because John woke up and left his room in a hurry. He’d intended to return and make his bed with military precision (even using his credit card to smooth out the bedsheets), now the bed will remain unmade because John’s in a custody cell at the Yard.

 

Sherlock's gaze lingers on that overturned water of glass. John didn’t just wake up; he was jolted awake, probably from a nightmare. (He knows well the signs of a restless night, his skin clammy, bags under his eyes, bloodshot irises. Sleep interrupted by bad dreams, his time in the army, Afghanistan. He has dreamt of them more often since Moriarty kidnapped him and strapped him in an explosive vest.  Maybe even the pool. John doesn’t want to admit that the incident rattled him. He’ll never permit to show any sign of weakness.)

 

What would wake John from a bad dream? A police siren on the street? Sherlock closing the door when he left that night? No, he had been careful to not wake John when he departed.

 

Most likely then: a phone call. John always keeps his phone on the bedside table, when it rang, he scrambled for it and knocked over his glass of water.

 

Sherlock pulls out his phone and lets his fingers slide across the screen.

 

*I require access to John´s phone call record. SH*

 

*30min*

 

*Make it 10. SH*

 

Whose call would drive John out of his bed and the apartment? Well, John would go to the aid of anybody who asked him for help. Had Sherlock been at home, he would have heard the phone ring, he would have seen John leave. He would have gone with him. But, John left in the middle of the night  without leaving a message for Sherlock. That means that whoever John went to see is somebody he does not want Sherlock to know that he is acquainted with.

 

 

What new acquaintances has John formed? He flickers through the list of names John has mentioned over the past few weeks and months. The majority (75,6%) of them are female.

 

John always seems to have an abundance of female associates he tries to court. Not unsurprising.  John is a man in is prime, with a steady and (should he chose to abandon his life as a crime solving blogger) respectable occupation. There’s previous spouses, children, or any strings to anybody or any place. Sherlock can readily recognize other attractive qualities in John. He’s steadfast and loyal, he’s brave and does not fear confrontation, even a possibly explosive one. That he is still unattached, Sherlock realizes, is something of an anomaly.

 

Tries to court.

 

Because that is always what it is, brief attempts. There’s no date, no matter how physically attractive, that John won’t abandon to rush to Sherlock’s aid. Or to make tea. Collect his laptop from the kitchen.

 

Sherlock has always assumed that John dates just because that is what average, heterosexual men in their mid thirties do.  (Are Omegas even interested in anybody who is not an Alpha?)Was John wasn’t just conforming to some standard norm of the typical heterosexual British male, that it was just a part of his elaborate attempt to not raise suspicions.  But if this midnight caller was part of John’s cover, then he would have been certain to leave a note, or the effort to delude Sherlock would have been a waste.

 

So, not a woman.

 

Not Lestrade or any of their other common social (professional) contacts.

 

*Last call, a Mr. Glen Reese at 04:32 am. Complete list on secure email.*

 

Ah. Of course.

 

There was only one person that John had met lately, who he had not mentioned to Sherlock, and who he would have felt compelled to help, even in the middle of the night.

 

Glen Reese. That other Omega.

 

Sherlock slides his hands to his temple, closes his eyes and thinks back to the day they met Glen Reese. The day when John had been playing the role of detective and been dead chuffed at solving his first case (albeit 1.9hrs slower than Sherlock would have credited John for.)

 

A cursory study of Glen Reese yielded enough information for Sherlock to conclude that the man was unimportant to the case. Middle aged, unemployed, but this pale and unblemished skin suggests a previous profession behind a desk. Probably had aspirations for higher education, but could not handle the pressure of it. Something that is low-key and undemanding. He wants to help people, he wants to be useful. Poor dietary habits, likely to develop diabetes or congestive heart failure in his mid sixties. Married for several years, though the other occupant of the house prefers not to have his presences known. Likely travels a lot in connection to whatever employment. Cats are substitute for affection and companionship.

 

Sherlock had not paid Glen Reese any more attention for he was if anything, a prime example of how spectacularly boring some people were.

 

But, Glen Reese had called John for help in the middle of the night and John, the brother in arm, which he was, had rushed to his assistance. Which means locating Glen Reese is going to be his second course of action. First he needs to get rid of some incriminating evidence.

 

He opens John’s wardrobe and flickers through the row of ugly, dull, hideous, unsightly and beastly cardigans, shirts and jumpers. Locating the shoebox where John keeps his illegally obtained military issue handgun is easy, it was one of the first things he found when he searched John’s room the night he moved in.

 

It will be problematic if they discover that John kept his sidearm, when he should have handed it in when he pensioned out of the army.  It will be Very Bad if they run ballistics on the weapon and can tie it to the same bullet that killed the cab driver (and, as John never tired of claiming, saved Sherlock’s life.) Right. John put a bullet squarely in the center of his chest. From a building across the road. With a simple handgun.

 

In hindsight (always hindsight, damn it) it seems remiss of Sherlock not to realize already then, that John was not merely a slightly unusual anomaly, an unexplainable blip on his radar, but something all together different.

 

New.

 

Interesting.

 

John Watson, with his unassuming stance, grandfather sweater-vests, Marks and Spencer trousers, and a psychosomatic limp, killed one man to save the flatmate he had just met.

 

Even for a skilled, Olympic medalist, marksman, that should have been an impossible shot.

 

Though not for somebody with enhanced eyesight.

 

How could he have overlooked such a vital piece of information?

 

Had there been other clues that told him that John is an Omega?

 

Going through all the things he knows about John Watson is not a quick exercise, because there is just so much information. Sherlock remembers meeting John and quickly deducing a number of things about him: his military career, his psychosomatic limp and tremor. That he had a sibling with an alcohol problem and a failing marriage. That he’s an adrenaline junkie.

 

A couple of hours later, Sherlock has been proven right about his assumptions and had thought  the matter concluded. There’s seldom anything else he can learn about a person that cannot be gleamed in a cursory examination. But, as months passed and they became flatmates and colleagues (friends, as John would insist), Sherlock learned a number of other things about John.  Soon it had become somewhat of an amusing  game: How Much Can He Learn About John. How long would it take him to actually know everything there is to know about somebody?

 

He knows that John takes his coffee with too much milk and two cubes of sugar. John doesn’t like his coffee white and sweet, but he indulges because he can, and out of some sort of asinine sentiment for the deployed men and women who are still chewing sand and instant coffee grain. He learns how the only decent shirt John owns is at least eight years old and has never been worn because it was given to him as a birthday present by his sister before Harriet lost her job as rising star attorney and her wife to alcoholism. John keeps the shirt because it’s the last gift he got from his sister before the two fell out over Harriet shirking her responsibilities and duties and John embarking on his for Queen and Country.

 

He thinks about the weird little frown John does when he’s pretending to be an unobtrusive, relaxed, agreeable everyday man.  Sherlock can easily picture the way John stands. It’s a posture that, to the untrained eye, seems casual, but Sherlock knows that John is always poised, ready to leap into action at the first sign of danger.

 

He considers John’s hand, smaller and blunter than his own, John’s left hand always slightly bent, curled in the way it does when it remembers his gun and scorching sun of the Afghan desert. John never left the war, and he’ll always be a soldier.

 

Soon John Watson became the only person with whom he can hold two concurrent conversations, where one of them is completely without words.

 

“Interesting,” (I require you to engage Lestrade in idle conversation, so he doesn’t interrupt me while I gather these vital pieces of evidence that is completely going to resolve the case and prove once again that Scotland Yard is out of their depth.)

 

“Don’t be an idiot,”  (I will never admit it, but you are making an interesting point that is shining a new light on this case.)

 

Sherlock knows all of John’s smiles and has documented them in a spreadsheet to use as a way to evaluate John’s mood. (John is always far more likely to assist him if he's feeling charitable.) The slightly exasperated smile, the one he gives Sherlock when he thinks Sherlock is doing something utterly ridiculous, but he is privately impressed (27,5% of the time) and amused (31,2%). There are those smiles, rare when they first met, but which are increasing in exponential frequencies over the past couple of weeks, the smiles only meant for Sherlock and that he can only describe as fond (41,3%).

 

As a general rule, people doesn't smile at Sherlock Holmes, especially not after he’s stripped away every secret and habit that they thought they were cleverly hiding. It’s not like he designs his statements to insult. But people, John had pointed out on more than one occasion do not like to have their entire life publicly dissected by Sherlock’s observations and deductions.

 

John had been the only one ever to react with astonishment and admiration.

 

"That was amazing!"

 

In his mind, Sherlock sees the park unfold, the pale grass, the trees and the distant chatter of people passing them by. He can feel the slightly uncomfortable press of hardwood against his back and under his thighs. John is sitting a safe distance from him, (15.8 inches away), his shoulders tensed in a way that tells Sherlock that John is disappointed in Sherlock.

 

“Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don’t have friends. I just got the one.”

 

“Right.”

 

The memory conjures something tight and uneasy in his chest.

 

The list continues, little drabs and drips of observations that he has catalogued and stored until his list was so comprehensive it became a book, then trilogy, then a series, until it filled an entire bookshelf, a whole room and then an entire wing of his Mind Palace. He might even have to consider additional complexes.

 

His game never ended.

 

Sherlock wanted to know more.

 

Which was unprecedented because people were usually so unremarkable.

 

But none of the hundreds and thousands of things he had deduced about John Watson ever included the possibility that he was an Omega. He blames it lack of data, before they met Glen Reese; Sherlock never had any experience with Omegas. He’s read about them, of course; it was somewhat of an educational requirement when he was diagnosed as an Alpha. Sherlock had been ten years old, and to him the droning of Doctor Fenway was nothing more than uninteresting dribble.

 

Hormones. Mating. Aggression. Dominance.

 

 

Doctor Fenway had explained that he was he was likely to suffer from physical, violent, outbursts. That there were some individuals, although rare, that he would find irresistible and that he would not be able to control himself around. Sherlock had always believed that the myth that these Omegas were somehow overwhelmingly desirable was absurd.  He does, after all, desire very few things (apart from that period a couple of years ago when he concedes that he might have had a particular predilection for certain illegal substances.) But it was prudent to learn everything about who he was and these people he were suppose to be irresistibly attracted to. They might drive him to sexually assault them. (How ludicrous. Like he would ever allow something as common as hormones dictate his actions.) The results were predictably disappointing.

 

Omegas were , predictable, small minded individuals who only desired to be dominated, owned and bred. They wanted Alphas to take care of their financial, emotional and physical needs and in return they were willing to serve do anything to please their Mate. Beyond this goal, they had no aspirations, no desires.

 

It was rather revolting.

 

Later, Doctor Fenway had explained that some people might consider him charismatic and charming, he might have slightly elevated reflexes and constitution, but beyond that, being an Alpha offered nothing except for the potential of occasional, aggressive, outbursts.

 

That he might even exhibit sociopathic tendencies.

 

He was special. Different.

 

Well, that was certainly no revelation, Sherlock had figured out long ago that he was not like his peers, something for which he was immensely grateful since they were all dull, dull, dull. 

 

After that session with Doctor Fenway, Mycroft had ensured that his records were sealed and destroyed and that he wouldn’t need to suffer any further testing or evaluation. Doctor Fenway would not be allowed to study the youngest ever presented Alpha, no matter how much he wheedled and begged.

 

Of course, Mycroft didn’t present as an Alpha until he was eighteen. He took the announcement with a slight shrug and curtly informed Doctor Fenway that it would be in the best interest for the continuation of his career if he forgets he ever met the Holmeses.

 

The image of a young Mycroft appears before him. This version of Mycroft is soft and doughy, and he will struggle for years, to Sherlock’s evident enjoyment, to rid himself of his pudgy figure. He’s not smiling, of course, because Mycroft never learned how to do it properly. It comes off slightly tilted, and always unnerved people more than relaxed them. Better to not display your inadequacies. Mycroft is smartly dressed in the regalia of his Eton’s uniform, a document case in one hand and what was soon to become his signature umbrella in the other. Mycroft’s weakness, Sherlock had been keen to point out, was that he had restless hands and never knew what to do with them and as a result they telegraphed his intentions as clearly as if they were tapping out morse code.

 

In this memory, Mycroft is looking down at Sherlock in that way that used to make Sherlock feel like he was only two feet tall.

 

“We both thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had little else to go on until we interacted with other children.”

 

“That was a mistake. Does everyone exhibit such jejune behavior?”

 

“We live in a world of goldfish, Sherlock.”

 

Much later, when John Watson is blinking at him in morse code while wrapped up in a Semtex vest of explosives, Sherlock realizes that he desires that John Watson remains in his life.

 

This realization had required four nicotine patches to analyze because he’s unfamiliar with emotional epiphanies concerning other people. (Aside for the one where he worked out that he wanted as little as possible to do with Mycroft, but certainly that was only common sense. An imbecile would have come to the same conclusion.)

 

There’s never been anybody Sherlock had wanted to be part of his life before, so why was John apparently an exception to this?

 

Sherlock decides to approach the question in the scientific manner; he examined the evidence of his hypothesis.

 

John is…useful.

 

He makes tea precisely how Sherlock prefers it, (tough he’ll never admit to any preferences) without being asked to. He always picks up Sherlock’s favorite takeaway even when Sherlock has declared that he doesn’t require sustenance.

 

When John is bored he has a tendency to clean the flat, but he is always considerate of the experiments in the more delicate stages.  And maybe, just maybe, it was fair of John to be upset about those toenails in his cereal. Though, why he was loudly upset for days after the hedgehog incident remains a mystery.

 

While at crime scenes, John fetches him things he asks for, sometimes even before he asks for them.

 

John possesses a wide range of mundane knowledge that Sherlock has not found relevant to put to memory, but which has on a rare occasion been proven vital to solving a case, or another.

 

“I can’t believe you deleted high school English Lit., Sherlock!”

 

His mundane observations at crime scene that always, somehow, prove to be insightful and stimulate Sherlock’s intellect. The little comments about shoes or toothbrushes. John Watson may very well not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light he is unbeatable.

 

Sherlock can admit that, on some level, John’s company is pleasant. He doesn’t try to engage Sherlock in idle conversation or to force him into trivial small talk to fill the silence.

 

And from the moment they met John had followed Sherlock without being asked to. From all this Sherlock had quickly surmised that John was incapable of refusing him anything.  He’d probably follow Sherlock to hell.

 

But is that all John is to him, utilitarian? 

 

Sherlock frowns as the unbidden image of Dregs appearing in front of him, tall and sneering, and his muscular arms folded over his ridiculous t-shirt. “It means that little Doctor Watson here is the live in houseboy, a servant, of Sherlock Holmes.”  Dregs leers at John and even in his memory Sherlock feels an overwhelming desire to protect and to claim him.

 

He violently dismisses the memory and the effigy of Dregs dissolves into a thousand pixels of colors that scatter and vanishes. (Later, when everything is resolved, he will delete this memory and never allow it to mar John’s again.)

 

Dregs had called John a houseboy, somebody who caters to Sherlock’s whims and makes life more convenient. He wonders if that is how John sees his role in Sherlock’s life and if that is why he had wanted to move out.

 

Sherlock allows himself to drift back to that moment in the corridor; John pressed between him and the wall, wide-eyed with surprise and his warm, moist, breath ghosting over Sherlock’s cheek. Ragged, uneven breathing. It’s been many years since anybody were so close that he could feel their exhalation. John had been almost pliant against him, his hands on Sherlock, holding on to him and in the same grip, holding them apart. Even in this memory, Sherlock can still feel the imprint of every of John’s fingers.

 

“I am thinking about moving out, getting my own place.”

 

There had been a whole list of possible response to this to this statement: certainly. You’re contract is valid another three months. Go ahead and leave. The option to ask John to stay hadn't featured on this list.

 

During all this time Sherlock has not been able to figure out how to categorize and appropriately deal with these unnecessary feelings for John.

 

“I have always been able to trust my senses,” he hears himself tell John, “to believe the evidence of my own eyes.”

 

Now, it was clear to him what it had all meant. John was an Omega. Sherlock was an Alpha. Nature had designed John to be attractive to Sherlock and vice versa. It was all just a simple matter of biology, a chemical defect. It was just the laws and axioms of life. He could no more help finding John attractive than a bee seeking out a flower to pollinate.  (He doesn’t spend any time thinking about why he has compared himself to a bee and John a flower, of all things, since he’s far from delicate.)

 

 

Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective, and he’ll solve the murder of Doctor Fenway and clear John’s name. That is who he is and this is his Work.

 

And after.

 

Well. Things would go back to normal and everything would be just fine. Millions of cells are replaced every day and soon whatever cells is making John think he’s attracted to Sherlock will decay and be replaced by new ones.

 

With that thought, Sherlock abandons his Mind Palace and lets John’s room materialize around him.

 

He reaches into the shoebox and scoops up the remaining cartridges and drops them into his jacket pocket; the gun cleaning kit goes into the other pocket. He tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants and then strides quickly out of John’s room and back down to the living room. Without pausing, he makes his way down the corridor and the seventeen steps that will take him down and out to Baker Street.

 

Sherlock’s has not even managed to take four steps before an (annoyingly) sleek, black, car drives up to him and the window rolls down. He ignores it of course, and merely continues on his path down the street without even knowing what he intends to go with the gun. There’s several ways of disposing of the weapon that will ensure that the police never finds it, but John will want it back later.

 

Predictably, the car follows him and eventually the door slams open and brings Sherlock to a jarring halt.

 

“Get in.”

 

For the first time in years, Sherlock abides by Mycroft’s request without protests or commentary, and folds himself into the backseat of the black car. He yanks the door shut, and the car slides smoothly back into traffic and continues down Baker Street.

 

“Do you want me to stand down the police investigation?”

 

“John is not guilty of murdering Doctor Fenway.” Sherlock keeps his attention firmly fixed on the people passing them. (A woman trying desperately to stay on the right side of thirty, slight limp to her gait due to shoes chosen to make a statement about her financial prowess, but unsuitable to a brisk walk down the hard pavement on Baker Street).

 

“That is not what I asked.”

 

“I do not require your interference, Mycroft.” Of course, telling Mycroft to stay out of his affairs is a lesson in futility. Mycroft will do as he sees fit, like the meddlesome administrator he is.

 

“Is that so.” Mycroft is using that overbearing tone of voice that suggests that Sherlock is unable to help John out of his current predicament with the Scotland Yard. As if Sherlock can’t…take care of John. Which is preposterous.

 

“John will be fine.” Sherlock scoffs, because John is a soldier, and if Sherlock was not currently distracted by Mycroft’s vexing presence he would be able to find a better parallel than that John will soldier on. (The words will come to him later, persevere, be pertinacious, relentless.)

 

“What do you intend to do with John Watson’s illegal firearm?”

 

Sherlock tosses his head back against the car seat and sighs, before dipping his hand down to fish out the gun, the bullets and the cleaning kit. He hands it all over to Mycroft, who takes the gun between the pinch of two fingers. He drops it into his briefcase before he takes the rest of the items and places them into a clear plastic bag;  it also disappears into the briefcase before he nudges it shut with the tip of his boot.

 

The car ride continues in tensile silence, Mycroft doing something, probably essential to the stable continuation of the British Commonwealth, on his phone while Sherlock keeps staring out of the car window. (Two teenagers, males. Second-hand uniforms that are too long in the trousers, the jackets, are too short in the arms. Schoolbags are most likely from a thrift stores. They are skipping school to canvas they intend to shoplift. A commonplace occurrence in London, general shopping lifting is up by 1.9% this quarter.)

 

Mycroft’s invisible driver pulls the car to a halt outside the London Royal Hospital. Sherlock hates, hates how his brow curls to a question mark on its own accord. Mycroft doesn’t even look up from his phone when he replies smoothly.

 

“You were going to see Mr. Glen Reese. I made the assumption that speed was the better part of your endeavor.”

 

Sherlock grumbles something under his breath and makes a hasty escape from Mycroft’s presence.

 

He steps into the hospital and avoids the organic hustle and bustle of a major hospital in London. If he allows his eyes to wander and soak up all the information and evidences, he sees in front of him he’ll be distracted(it will be an interesting exercise for another day). It’s easy to find the doctors’ locker room and chose the one locker that has the name written on it in a post-it (new employer). His Belstaff finds temporary shelter in the locker as he shrugs into the white coat. It fits though rather snug across the shoulders, but it’s not so bad that it will draw attention. He wets his hands in the sink and smooths back his hair until it lies slick against his scalp. He stares at the name embroidered on the coat and then steals a couple of pens from a nearby locker and arranges them in a neat row in the front pocket.

 

Now he is doctor Fraser.

 

In the lobby, Sherlock stalks with purpose towards the reception desk and grabs a random clipboard and scans it absently as he makes his way to the elevator that will take him up to the recovery ward. The elevator is cramped, and he spends the ride pressed up against the metal wall and a gurney containing a large, red-faced woman talking rapidly into her phone. (“These quacks do not know what they are doing, Robert! You get me a proper physician immediately!”). She glares at Sherlock, as if he is one of the one responsible for putting her in a hospital bed (she’s wheezing for breath. Chubby fingers are evidence of potential heart disease.)

 

It’s a relief when the elevator dings open on the next floor, and he squeezes his way out. He scans the floor before he grabs a female intern in light blue surgical scrubs. She’s has short, brown, hair and a constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the way she squints at him makes him conclude that she needs to change the prescriptions of her contact lenses.

 

“Yes?” she says in a slightly hesitant tone.

 

“Where might I locate Mr. Reese?” he adds just the hint of a Scottish brogue. (John would find it amusing, and they’d share that secret grin and would laugh later.)

 

She blinks rapidly at him (she really should do something about those lenses). “Oh.” She squeaks. “Um.” She fumbles through a stack of patient files while Sherlock scowls impatiently at her.

 

“Are you from psych. evalv?”

 

“Aye,” (Psychiatric evaluation. So either Glen Reese is hostile, depressed or showing other signs of physiological impairment.)

 

“Um,” the intern repeats “well, he’s in room 315, bed three.”

 

Without another word, Sherlock makes his way down the corridor to room 315 and pushes open the door. There are six beds in the room, all behind pale, blue curtains that afford the patients the illusion of privacy. Bed three is at the far end of the room, by the window.

 

Sherlock pulls the curtain aside, and stares into the pudgy face of Glen Reese occupied with trying to vacuum the content out of a pudding cup. Three full cups sits on a tray in front of him. He looks up, startled at first, but then recognition slowly dawns, and the next spoon of pudding is slow and deliberate as if he’s daring Sherlock to take it away from him.

 

“Mr. Reese.” Sherlock twists around the bed so that he can grab Reese’s patient file. Admitted last night for attempted suicide. In his own bathtub. It seems that even this Omega’s attempt to end his life was a dull one.

 

He frowns at the blood work. Elevated counts of hCG. The doctor has requested additional blood work and speculates in couvade syndrome. He recommends further physiological testing for sympathetic pregnancy.

 

Sherlock lets his eyes wander  briefly across Glen Reese’s round form tucked under the duvet in the hospital bed. It’s impossible to tell one way or the other.

 

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” Glen Reese mumbles through a mouth full of pudding, spraying brown chocolate sauce all over the front of his gown. “Why are you here? Are you investigating a crime? Oh! Has somebody committed a crime in the hospital? Is it an angel of death sort of criminal? I always thought those were really fascinating, I mean, is it really a crime to end the life of people who are slowly dying in agony? But, no, that would be too boring for you. It must be something more interesting to warren your attention. Oh, you can tell me, I won’t say anything to anybody, promise.”

 

Christ. Does this man ever shut up?

 

“I want you to tell me about Doctor Fenway,” Sherlock says in a desperate attempt to stop himself from strangling him.

 

“I would think you knew him, being an Alpha, and all,” Glen says after considerable silence.

 

“I’m asking you to tell me what you know!”

 

“Well,” Glen consults his pudding cup for advice while he muddles through his response. “I’ve known him all my life, well, ever since, you know. I was sixteen. I was very sorry to hear when I called his office to hear that he had been shot! Who would do such an awful thing! He was always so helpful, telling me what to do with my life. He told me what school to go to, what to study. Did you know that, well, many thinks there is a lot of paperwork in social services, but it is all very fascinating, you know. Forms. Regulations. It’s important work. Very responsible and…”

 

“Fenway!” Sherlock barks, jolting Glen back on track.

 

“Well, he was never anything but kind and generous to me. I don’t know why anybody would wish him dead.”

 

Glen reaches for the second pudding cup on his tray and rips the lid off. He licks it clean before he dips his spoon into the murky substance.

 

“Why did Fenway give you the manuscript of his book?”

 

“He said he wanted an Omegas’ perspective on his work, like David is so…unique. It’s unheard of you, know, an Omega going off to be a solider in a war. We just don’t do that sort of thing. Doctor Fenway wanted me to counteract some of the points ‘David’ argues.  He suggested that I could even write a little foreword. It’s quite an honor; he’s never asked me to help him with anything this important. Do you think they will still publish the book now that Doctor Fenway has been murdered?”

 

“Why did you show the book to John?”

 

Glen licks pudding off his chubby fingers while he considers Sherlock’s question. He can feel himself tethering on the brink of his patience and wonders how anybody could ever find this man desirable. He does not elicit any desires in Sherlock, (besides, the one to commit justifiable homicide.)

 

“Well, the main character, David, sounded a lot like Doctor Watson, so I thought it’d be interesting to see if it were true. Both soldiers, no strangers to dangers, a bit of a thrill seeker. So I though I the best way to figure it out was just to ask him. But, you know, Doctor Watson said it wasn’t.  But I’m not sure I believe him; he was all flustered, and I could hear his heart rate increase. Us Omegas, we've got great  hearing you know. And besides, there were so many obvious similarities.”

 

Of course, John would not want to admit to being an Omega, and at least not one that is going to have a mock version of his life published and dissected by his medical colleagues.

 

“What did you do after you visited John?”

 

“Hmm.” Glen looks forlornly at his empty pudding cup and pouts. With a dramatic sigh, he sets it on his tray and folds his fat hands over his stomach.

 

“Well, I went back to Doctor Fenway and returned his manuscript. And, oh, I know what you are going to ask next because they do so all the time on like, Midsomer Murders, you’re going to ask me what Doctor Fenway was like. If he was acting strange or anxious or anything. Well, I’tell you, he was like he always was, smiling, wanting to know how I was doing, my thoughts on the book. I said I’d write them up for him.”

 

“Why did you call John last night?” Sherlock snaps the third pudding cup out of Glen’s reach.

 

“I was….I was upset. It’s….it’s…..” Glen’s posture deflates and he slowly sinks deeper into his fortress of pillows and sheets. “I wasn’t thinking straight and Doctor Watson, he’s….he’s so kind, you know? I just knew he’d help me, he’s just so helpful, Doctor Watson is.” He looks at Sherlock with large, wet eyes, but Sherlock is impervious to his desire for sympathy.

 

“And the reason for your….distress?” Sherlock is trying his best to keep his repulsion out of the last word. He understands now why John had wanted to keep his association with Glen a secret. Not only would Sherlock ridiculed him, but he would have quickly deduced that the only reason John would keep a man like this within his circle of associates would be because they had something in common.

 

That they are both Omegas is the only thing they have in common, for which Sherlock is immensely grateful.

 

“That’s personal!” Glen says pertly, twisting away from Sherlock to stare out of the window.

 

The clock on the wall above Glen’s bed eats away the seconds, and Sherlock stifles as a sigh.

 

“What happened when John arrived?”

 

“I…I don’t remember. I suppose he saved me. The ambulance personnel said that someone had called 999 and that somebody dragged me….somebody gave me…. But there wasn’t anybody there when they arrived. So I guess he ran away or something. Didn’t want to be associated with me, like it’s something shameful.”

 

John had gone to Glen’s apartment, saved his life and then called emergency services, but he had not remained on scene to give his report. He had abandoned a man in need, something Sherlock knew went, not only against the Hippocratic Oath, but against the very core of John’s….Johness. He must have been worried that he’d be discovered, that Sherlock would deduce the reason for Glen calling John and John coming to his aid.

 

Sherlock hasn’t considered how anxious John must have been, how worried he had been that somebody (him!) would discover his secret. Did John really think Sherlock would let biology dictate his actions? John’s concerns are entirely unfounded. He thinks about his last words to John, the confession buried beneath it and wonders if John had the sense to hear it.

 

“May I have a new pudding?” Glen mumbles from where his face is pressed into his pillows.

 

“Ask a nurse.” Sherlock scoffs. He turns away from Glen, and without a final glance, strides away from the bed.

 

He has a lot of new information to consider.

 

Outside it has started to rain, and Sherlock raises the collars of his coat to protect himself from the droplets that trickle down the back of his neck. He fishes his phone out from his pocket and flicks his way to Lestrade’s contact information.

 

*You need to interview Glen Reese. He is at the London Royal Hospital. SH*

 

The response comes a predictable 5.6 minutes later.

 

*I have already arranged for him to be interviewed tomorrow.*

 

Well, at least Lestrade isn’t entirely useless.

 

*Ask him about his phone call to Fenway’s office and check the phone records. Fenway and Reese’s. SH*

 

It will take him exactly 1hr and 32 minutes to walk back to 221 Baker Street, baring any unforeseen traffic, and that is plenty of time to digest all the new information.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Sherlock returns to his flat he hangs his coat next to John’s, smaller, military green jacket. Water drips from the soaked wool and onto the floorboards. He steps out of his wet shoes and pads to the bathroom. When the water is scalding and painful, he steps under the spray and scrubs away every last speck of Glen Reese. 

 

Once he feels properly cleansed, he drapes himself in his bathrobe, wanders downstairs to the  living room and sinks into his chair, his legs over the armrest towards the couch and his head resting on the opposite one. This way, he does not have to look at John’s empty cushioned chair. He steeples his fingers under his chin and assumes the posture that John had once referred to at “Sherlock Ignoring the Rest of the World” pose.   Shutting out his surrounding is a necessary requirement to allow himself to study all the details of the case and focus on the few odds and ends, the cracks in the case, the little details that do not add up.

 

How this all, somehow, seems bigger than just the murder of Doctor Fenway.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock blinks the world slowly into existence. The sun is warming his back, teasing the short curls at the nape of his back, like a warm and gentle caress. It is morning and Sherlock does not recall how the world went from one stage to the other. He allows himself a second to study the angle of the light, taking into account the way it is dancing across the floor.  It must be near 10 am, and he’s lost hours to sleep.  An unacceptable use of his valuable time. Of John’s valuable time.

 

It has been years since he lost control of his internal clock, and the feeling is jarring and disorientating. Sherlock rubs a hand across his face, wiping the last vestiges of sleep away from his eyes.

 

His phone is buzzing insistently in his pocket, and he pulls it up and flickers it open with one sweep of his thumb.

 

“Yes?” he replies, already moving into the kitchen, intent on a glass of water. (No matter how annoying it is, he cannot deny his need to be hydrated.)

 

“Sherlock. I need you at the Yard as soon as possible.” Lestrade’s voice is oddly distant, as if he’s distracted by something, though Sherlock cannot possibly imagine what is more important than proving John’s innocence and getting him released from prison (and back to 221B where he belongs.)

 

“Do you have Glen Reese for questioning?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why are you dallying!” 

 

“Sherlock.” Sherlock can almost feel the Lestrade’s sigh through the telephone. “John is gone.”

 

Gone. Not released or moved to another station. Gone.

 

Anger flares, bright and dangerous and Sherlock can feel the glass of water explode in his grip, water and shards spilling over his hand and onto the floor.

 

“What do you mean, gone?”

 

“I think you better come to the Yard,” Lestrade repeats, ending the call before Sherlock can say anything else.

 

Sherlock flexes his hands, feeling small specks of glass digging into the rough skin of his palm.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“John was not reported missing until he failed to arrive at an appointment with Doctor Miss…Miz….” Lestrade struggles for a moment with the foreign name “Mizuno at 9 am. At that time, we radioed the dispatch car, but there was no response. We tried to track them and discovered that the GPS locator had been disabled, as well as the dashboard camera. We’ve reported both the car, John and the constables, Jane Hill and Simon Whitewell, responsible for seeing John to his appointment, missing.”

 

Lestrade sinks down into his chair and raises a hand, halting Sherlock’s slew of questions. “There is more.”

 

“We have video surveillance showing John leaving with the two constables at 7:30 am, and the three of them getting into the police vehicle. There are no signs or any indication of anything out of the ordinary occurring. We are currently searching the traffic cameras and CCTV to try and track the car.”

 

Sherlock’s fists curls and uncurls, the sting of the cut throbbing dully in his hands. Lestrade looks oddly troubled, and it’s a new look for him, because he’s never allowed himself to be visible affected by the cases he’s been working (for which Sherlock secretly admires him, but will never admit it.)

 

He wants to know why Lestrade lets two unknown constables cart him off. Lestrade should have followed John himself. He wants to know why John was going to see Doctor Mizuno, but that is a secondary prerogative, so he forces himself to focuses on what is important.

 

“I want to see all the footage of John’s cell.”

 

Lestrade nods and gestures to the laptop on his desk, pushing it towards Sherlock.

 

Sherlock’s fingers goes over the keyboard so quickly it sounds like somebody has put a piece of cardboard into the spokes of a bicycle wheel.

 

He feels Lestrade’s presence as the detective inspector leans over his shoulder to watch the footage slowly playing on the laptops' grainy screen.

 

 

In prison.

 

With a deep breath, he banishes the myriads of the observations and thoughts that presents itself upon studying John.

 

“There’s no sound.”

 

Behind him Lestrade grunts and says something about human rights movement and prisoner’s claim to privacy.

 

“Who is he talking to?” Sherlock asks, watching John pace the small confines of the cell, his arms a shield across his chest.

 

“Hmm.” Lestrade pulls away and moves over to his desk where Sherlock can hear the rustling of paper as Lestrade consults the mess that he calls a filing system on the top of his desk.

 

“A man called Adrian Reese.”

 

Sherlock feels the hair on the back of his neck leap to attention and narrows his eyes at the screen. John looks agitated, but it’s only visible to somebody who is intimately familiar with John. Lestrade wouldn’t have noticed. On every fifth step, there is the barest hint of a skip in his step as his knee gives away to the pain in his head.

 

“Any connection with Glen Reese?” Sherlock already knows the answer.

 

“Christ.” Lestrade curses, slamming down a bundle of papers. “His civil partner. Alpha.”

 

“What was he arrested for?” Sherlock returns his attention to the screen and watches as John sits down on the narrow bench in the cell. He rolls onto his back, lying like that for a moment before he curls up, his back to Adrian Reese’s cell and the camera.

 

Around 3.pm, a constable comes and collects John.

 

“He’s going to see his lawyer; Dena Miller,” Lestrade says to Sherlock’s unspoken question.  John returns to the cell three hours later and resumes his posture on the bed.

 

“Adrian Reese,” Sherlock prompts.

 

“You…don’t want to know,” Lestrade mutters bitterly. Sherlock glances up intrigued.

 

Lestrade looks like he’s bitten into something vile but is too polite to spit it out.

 

“He was picked up two days ago for public indecency.”

 

“What?”

 

“I am putting this is as delicately as I can. Adrian Reese was arrested for indecent behavior towards a World War One soldier memorial statue up at Cornhill.” Lestrade cringes and shuffles the papers away. “At any rate, he’s still down there” Lestrade gestures to the live footage of Adrian Reese shuffling about in his cell.

 

"As you'll soon see, he didn't have any contact or communicate with the officers collecting John."

 

Sherlock returns his attention to the laptop screen, watching the slow rise and fall of John’s back. Even breathing. He’s asleep. With a few clicks, he speeds up the recording, watching through hours of footage of John’s, drinking in the sight of him.

 

At 7:24 am two uniformed constables appears. The woman has dark, cropped hair, and a tall and almost gangly gait. She carries herself with purpose, every movement quick and precise.  (Former gymnastic injured her right shoulder a couple of years ago.) Her partner is half a head shorter, shaped like a carrot with broad shoulders that speaks of a youth spent doing heavy manual labor (grew up on a farm.)

 

He watches the pair,  Jane Hill and Simon Whitewell, talk with John, watches John slowly rise, stretching his arms above his head. (The bench has been painful on his shoulder, and his back will ache for days). They unlock the cell door and the trio disappears, John between the two constables. Sherlock watches each second leading down the corridor, switching cameras when it is required, until the trio enter processing with the Warden, and then leaves the prison through the carpark.

 

Then he rewinds and watches it all again.

 

John has had an uncomfortable night on a cold, metal bench, but there’s still something strange about his gait.  Sherlock leans in closer to the screen and is frown deepens. He pulls up his mobile and with only cursory glance he types out a short and urgent message.

 

“Anything?” Lestrade sounds hopeful.

 

“Hmm,”Sherlock responds and pauses the recording. He taps the image of Jane Hill, her head bent away from the camera, one arm hooked around John’s.

 

“They are both in on it. You can tell by their uniform, the work is well done, but there’s one minor detail they got wrong.”

 

“What?” Lestrade exclaims, moving over to peer at the laptop’s screen. “How can you tell?”

 

Sherlock emits the sigh of the long-suffering, why is it that Lestrade never learned to use his eyes.

 

“Look!” He insists, jabbing the screen with his ring finger. “The insignias, the lapels on their shirt. They are wrong. The constable symbols are too high up; they are where a sergeant’s symbols would be.”

 

Lestrade looks and blinks until he finally registers what Sherlock is saying.

 

Sherlock speeds up the recording again and points to the image of the trio helping John into the car. The response chimes in on his phone and he glance at it, typing his response as he talks to Lestrade.

 

*20 min. Secure server.*

 

“John’s been drugged, but the drugs haven’t taken full effect yet. Look, he’s stumbling here, trying to resist, but his movements are sluggish.”

 

“Christ,” Lestrade repeats.

 

“I doubt they are the mastermind behind this. I want to talk to Glen Reese.”

 

Lestrade looks, if possible, even grimmer.

 

“That’s the other thing.” His lips twist into a sour slant, “when officers went to collect him from the hospital this morning, he was gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> I would really love to hear from you, so please feel free to contact me here or on tumblr. You can find me lurking under Friolerofiction.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues the investigation of John's kidnapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of tears, chocolate and hours of cat-therapy went into this chapter. I confess I was close to giving up several times. Thanks to all of you who encouraged me to keep on with your comments and kudos.
> 
> I am currently without a beta reader, and would really appreciate if anybody has some time to donate. If you feel uncomfortable with handling proof reading, I would gladly accept the help of someone who could help me with plots and structure.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> As always, I 'd love to meet more of the people in this fandom, so please contact me on tumblr at http://friolerofiction.tumblr.com/

Disclaimer. I am probably making up some laws and procedures that doesn't exist. Please notes that this chapter contains quotes from the ACD "Bascombe Valley Mystery."

 

 

"If we abandon the notion that the Omegas do not require an Alpha to keep them in balance, imagine what these individuals could do. This is a gender with increased sight, hearing, sense of smell and strength and other untapped resources. Imagine what these individuals could do if their skills were properly utilized. Imagine what we as a species could accomplish if we could tap into the part of their biology that gives them these enhanced senses. Our genetic future lies in understanding the Omega and their real biological capabilities".

 

                       (Fenway., G. MD. _"David: Omega and the Genetic Future."_ Free Press: 2016)

**Chapter 12**

 

John has been missing for five hours and twenty-three minutes.

 

His throat is tight with anger of letting himself be fooled, to let himself get distracted To have John snatched away from him again.

 

Sherlock regrets allowing Lestrade to take the reins on the conversation with the security guard at London Royal Hospital. Lestrade's not…. wholly incompetent, (not that he'll ever admit it) he's just frustratingly slow and delaying the search for John by letting Amanda Carson flirt with him.

 

It's utterly repulsive. The woman is shaped like a soda-bottle and her smile tells him she's not seen the inside of a dentist's office for at least fifteen years. She's been flirting it for eight point seven minutes, escalating from twisting a lock of hair around her finger (long, luscious hair, an ancient display of fertility), to the little tilt of her head, (an attempt to seem delicate and frail and instill a sense of protectiveness in the DI. )

 

 

Sherlock is bristling with impatience, and he stuffs his hands  in the pocket of his great-coat, to keep them from grabbing Amanda Carson by her shoulders and shaking the information out of her.

 

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Reese?” Lestrade's voice is strained politeness.

 

“The on-duty nurse checked in on him as scheduled at 6 am. The next round was at 7 am. By then, Mr. Reese was gone.” Amanda Carson confirms her statement with her grey clipboard and winks at Lestrade.

 

“What happened then?”

 

“And don't leave out any details.”

 

“First we checked the bathroom in 315 and then the toilets in the corridor. Sometimes if the bathroom is occupied the patients will use the ones in the hallway. When we didn't find Mr. Reese in any of the bathrooms, we searched the entire floor, and then the rest of the hospital. Occasionally patients  sleepwalk due to the stress of new surroundings and having to sleep in a room with strangers. None of the night staff, including the orderlies, janitors or the porters had seen Mr. Reese. At that point, security was alerted and we tried to contact Mr. Reese's next of kind, but we unable to locate him at any of the numbers he had provided on the emergency contact information.”

 

Because he's in jail.

 

“What about the security cameras?” Lestrade asks, glancing at the small, black globes fixed in the ceiling.

 

Amanda Carson smiles a horrid row of yellow, greenish, teeth.

 

“When we couldn't find any signs of Mr. Reese we decided to consult the video footage. The cameras captured Mr. Reese leaving his room at 6:11 am and walking down the corridor towards the elevators. We have him on camera entering the elevator and riding it to the lowest level of the car park. The camera down there are of an older model, you know how it is,” she fixes her brown eyes on Lestrade. “Funding cuts. Thus, the images are of a poor resolution and only in black and white, I fear. But they show a car leaving at 6:29 am, heading west. Only thing you can really make out is a blurry image of the driver, but we are fairly certain that it´s Mr. Reese. ”

 

“Does the camera capture the car license?” Lestrade looks up from his notes and into the beaming face of Amanda Carson.

 

“No, the licence was covered, but the I recognize the model as Ford Focus. " Amanda Carson beams. She takes a piece of paper and offers it to Lestrade. Sherlock is faster and he snaps it out of her hand and in a few seconds he's texting instructions to Mycroft.

 

“Umm….” Amanda Carson glances uncertainly between the two.

 

“We'll need to see the ” Sherlock instructs.

 

“Sure…” Amanda Carson says as Lestrade gives his nod of consent. “We're compiling it down in Security. It should be ready in about half an hour. May I ask what this is about? Is he wanted for something?”

 

“What was he wearing?”

 

“Mr. Reese?” She looks confused for a moment, and Sherlock releases the exasperated sigh.

 

“Yes.” Lestrade quickly interjects.

 

“Well. He was…..”

 

Sherlock can practically see the cognitive cogs in her mind slowly gearing into action. “Oh.” Regaining her confidence, she smiles at Lestrade.

 

“He wasn't wearing a hospital gown, but his clothes should still be in admittance. So, I guess somebody came and gave him new ones?”

 

Who brought him a spare set of clothes? How long had Glen Reese been planning to leave?

 

“Right,” Lestrade says and Sherlock quickly demands “We will need all the footage of the doorway to room 315.”

 

Amanda Carson's smile quickly melts and she chews her lower lip nervously. “I can get you some of the footage, but….the rest is going to be difficult. They are automatically recorded over after 24.hrs if we don't interrupt the process.” She holds her a hand up defensively, “it's not my decision, we're not allowed to store sensitive data about people. EU laws have strict regulations on data storage of personal information.”

 

Sherlock balls his hands into fists, so hard that he can feel his nails digging into the skin of his palm. He grasps for the other detail that's lingering at the forefront of his mind.

 

“You said, that the image was so grainy you could only see the driver.”

 

The security guard nods.

 

“Doesn't that mean that there was somebody else in the car?” Sherlock presses out between gritted teeth.

 

“Oh,” Amanda Carson says again, “I didn't mention it? There was somebody in the passanger seat, looks like a woman.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They are in a cab on the way to Glen Reese's place, when a new text from Mycroft announces its presence. 

 

*Police car found abandoned at warehouse outside Brentwood. Technicians are working on it.*

*I will inspect the site myself. SH*

 

Sherlock leans back against the headrest, staring at the roof, numbers running through his mind. Brentwood. Google puts it about an 1 hr and 17 min outside of London by car. Taking into account the early morning congestions and construction, the journey is more likely to take close to an 1 hr and 40 min.

 

*I require access to the records of Glen and Adrian Reese as well. SH*

 

They abandoned the police car and exchange it for an unmarked, vehicle.   It means that somebody had worked out all the minute details of taking John away from him.

 

“This is it,” Lestrade informs him unnecessarily as he pulls the car up alongside Glen Reese's apartment. A uniformed constable is standing guard outside it, huddled into his jacket and stomping his feet against the cold. Lestrade stops and exchanges a few words with the constable, while Sherlock barrages past him and into the hallway.

 

It's been weeks since he's been here.

 

The apartment still holds the faint tinge of another Alpha like charged ions prickling his skin. The traces of the Omega is thick and cloying, like the perfume section at a department store with hundreds of scents trying to attract his attention.

 

"We'll need to get forensic down here," Lestrade says.

 

There's an organized mess to the room, DVDs pulled carefully off their rack and dropped on the floor, none of the cases is cracked. There are books in piles by the bookshelves. A few cushions from the sofa are by the TV bench. To the untrained eye, the room seemed to suffer from the destruction of a violent outburst or a skirmish. But Sherlock's eyes are far from untrained and he can distinguish between the catastrophic violence and the metrology to this chaos. All the picture frames on the walls and the shelves remain intact and the discarded items are discarded too neatly. All the books in one pile. All the DVDs in one pile. He kneels and studies the DVD covers and thinks it a curious mixture, Grey's Anatomy, ER, House MD, Band of Brothers, Generation Kill. 

 

There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.

 

Sherlock continues his survey of the apartment and finds a similar chaotic situation in the kitchen. A couple of plates smashed on the floor, but nothing else. In the far corner, he finds several dishes of cat food and water. Glen Reese planned to be gone, but not for more than a couple of days.

 

He moves slowly upstairs, nudging open the door that leads to the pink bathroom. There's water in the bathtub and the towels on the floor are still damp. The sink carries the evidence of the pair living in the apartment, two toothbrushes, two razors. He opens the cabinet over the sinks and spots a myriad of over the counter medicines. Pain killers, bandaid. A bottle of vitamin B. The same type that he found in John's cabinet when he conducted his preliminary investigation of how far John had integrated himself into his flat (so much that his departure would leave large gaps.).

 

In the bedroom, he discovers the two cats, watching him lazily. Sherlock sweeps his gaze over the room. Bed made to precision. Dark grey bedspread, black satin throw pillows, two small lamps on either of the bedside cabinets. No signs of the torrent of destruction from downstairs.  On one of the cabinets, he finds the 150th anniversary edition of Grey's Anatomy. It doesn't strike him like Glen Reese's preferred choice of reading material.

 

He moves to the wardrobe, yanks it open and stares at the content. Cardigans. Sweaters. Checkered shirts. It looks like somebody raided John's wardrobe, but the similarity ends there. The scent of the clothes is floral, saccharine and nauseating. He slams the door shut.

 

Adrian Reese's clothes are all suits of black and charcoal grey and shirts in dark red and mustard yellow. Business suits. Colors that subtly draws attention to him, but aren't so dominating that Adrian Reese would stand out  in a crowd.  On a hook, he sees an ID bag from one financial company in downtown London. Sherlock texts the name of the corporation to Mycroft.  There is a 98,2% chance that it's not involved in John's abduction, but he won't leave any stone unturned.

 

“Anything?” Lestrade steps into the bedroom, taking in the sight of Sherlock peering into the wardrobe. "I can't imagine Glen Reese being the mastermind behind John's abduction.”

 

“That goes without saying.”

 

"What have you learned so far?"

 

“Nothing that will lead us to John's location,” Sherlock replies. “You should leave the constable at the door until one of them return. When we get back to the Yard, I intend speak with Adrian Reese.”

 

Lestrade only gives him a shrug of acknowledgment and Sherlock moves over to inspect the laptop sitting on a chair in the corner. It's not even password protected and freely submits its content to him.

 

It contains an almost impressive amount of porn, video, audio and picture files. He clicks open the email account and sees nothing but Glen's receipt from Amazon purchases, a few more medical textbooks. An autobiography by Steve Russell, We Got Him! A Memoir of the Hunt and Capture of Saddam Hussein.  There are other similar books: Dead Men Risen The Welsh Guard and the Defining Story of Britains in the War in Afghanistan and Toby Harden and Lone Survivor The Incredible True Story of Navy SEALS Under Siege by Marcus Luttrell.

 

Sherlock scrolls down the list frowning at the implications. Lestrade's phone chimes.

 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade calls, dragging him out of his deductions. “We got Simon Whitewell, he was passed out in a public men's room in Brenton. They are bringing him to the Yard.”

 

"And Jane Hill?"

 

"We've still not been able to identify her, isn't your brother able to help?"

 

"He assures me they are working on it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours later, Simon Whitewell is sitting in the same interview room where DI Dregs interrogated John Watson. 

 

John has been gone for 9.2 hrs and Simon Whitewell is drunk.

 

He sits slumped in the chair, blinking blearily into a paper cup of cooling coffee that his defense attorney has bought in an attempt to sober him up.

 

Lestrade remains standing as he read caution. “You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

 

Simon Whitewell bobs is head, "Sure. I understand."

 

The defense attorney makes  skeptical noise. “I really must lodge an official complaint, detective inspector. My client is clearly not in a condition to be questioned.”

 

“Your client put himself in this situation, Mr. Coil. We're working a kidnapping case and don't have time to wait for him to sober up. Mr. Whitewell has said that he is willing to answer our questions.”

 

Before Mr. Coil can voice additional protest, Simon Whitewell slurs. “I'm gonna talk. M'cards on this table.” He caresses the furniture.

 

Lestrade clears his throat.“Simon Whitewell, born the 5th of May 1986. Originally from Yorkshire, but a resident in London for the past five years. You currently work part time at Waterstones.”

 

“Correcto mundo.”

 

“ We have a slew of charges against you.” Lestrade flickers through a stack of papers on his clipboard. “Impersonating an officer, stealing a police vehicle, accessory to kidnapping. You're looking at a long time in prison, but if you are willing to cooperate I may be willing to speak with the district attorney.”

 

"Sounds great."

 

"What were you doing in Brentwood?"

 

"I don’t really remember."

 

“Do you remember passing out  in a public restroom in Brentwood?”

 

“Arrrm…” Simon Whitewall grabs his cold cup of coffee and takes a sip. “Well, I wanted to be well rested for my police interrogation.”

 

Mr. Coil draws his lips to a thin, white line, “as you can see, detective inspector. This is a waste of time. I suggest….»

 

“Where is John Watson?”

 

Simon Whitewell sniffles loudly, wiping his hand under his nose and studying his findings. “Who?”

 

“John. Watson.” Lestrade enunciates each syllable. “The man you kidnapped from the police custody cell.»

 

“Could I like, get a pizza or something?” Simon Whitewell looks hopefully at Lestrade. "They always do that in the movie, you know, to get the suspect to talk."

 

Lestrade has an odd sense of deja vu even before the door slams open and Sherlock Holmes barges into the interrogation room. In one fluid motion he grabs Simon Whitewell by the scruff of his neck, hoists him up from the floor and slams him into the wall, pinning him in place with his arm.

 

“I must protest!” Mr. Coil cries at the same time Lestrade yells, “let him go, you idiot!”

 

Sherlock isn't even registering their feeble protests. He leans in, pressing his elbow against Simon Whitewell's sternum while the other hand moves up and wraps firmly around his lower neck.  Simon Whitewell gasps and wheezes for air, clawing at Sherlock's arms, his eyes are wide and terrified.

 

“Now.” Sherlock says, teeth bared. “Tell me who hired you.”

 

Simon Whitewell pants, his chest shaking with each struggle for breath.

 

“Sherlock, let him go!” He can feel Lestrade trying to yank him away, but Sherlock is utilizing all of his strength in keeping Whitewell in his grasp.

 

“If you do not tell me what I need to know.” Sherlock slides one hand up the pale expanse of Simon's throat, wrapping his fingers around and pushing against his Adam's apple. “I will crush your windpipe.”

 

His breathing is ragged and his eyes are brimming with tears.

 

“Now this, this I never really mastered.” Sherlock confesses low and tight. “If I do it correctly, you will just be momentarily indisposed. If I do it wrong, the indisposition will be permanent. It might take you a few minutes before you fall unconscious, but I am confident I can stretch this out to be as long and painful as possible.”

 

“Are you listening to this, detective inspector.” Mr Coil rants, “death threats!”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Tell. Me. Who. Hired. You?”

 

Simon Whitewell falls limp against Sherlock's arms. For a second Sherlock thinks he’s miscalculated his own strength, but then Simon Whitewell is glancing down at the consulting detective with bright, green eyes, not a trace of his previous inebriation.

 

“Jane Hill, did.” He wets his lips. “She said she could hook me up with this really easy job: walk in, grab this fellow and escort him to the police car. She was going to pay me 5000 pounds for it.”

 

The noises behind Sherlock fades and he slowly removes his arm. Simon Whitewell falls to his knees, gasping, coughing and shaking.

 

“Did you drug him?”

 

“I didn't….but, I guess Jane did something to him, because, he…John Watson, said he was feeling woozy and sluggish. He was stumbling and we had to half carry him to the car. Jane H…Hill, she dropped me off outside this old industrial site in Brenton, she gave me an envelope with the cash, I changed into civilian clothing and left the uniform in the trunk of the car. Then she drove off. I don't know where. I hit the nearest pub, to, you know, celebrate.”

 

“How did you meet Jane Hill?”

 

“She…she contacted me on the internet. There's a website for people looking to earn a couple of quids under the table. Five thousand was just too good to pass up. She had everything ready, the uniforms, the security cards. We didn't exchange any words, she just told me what to do and I…did it. I’ve never saw her before and she never talked to me beyond describing the job.”

 

"When," Sherlock demands, "did Jane Hill contact you."

 

"Thre....three days ago." Simon Whitewell wets his lips. “I just…well, it was just so much money.” He repeats, his gaze leaps from Mr. Coil, to Lestrade, seeking sympathy and finding none. “It's not like the guy is dead or anything, right? Who'd go to all that trouble just to kill him, we could just have done so as soon as we were outta the city.”

 

Sherlock snarls and grabs Simon Whitewell by his chin, lifting him up with one arm until he's pressing him against the wall again, squeezing the breath out of him. His Adam's apple bobs erratically against Sherlock's hand, but the only thing Sherlock can hear is the pounding of the blood rushing in his ear as he stares into the feeble, useless face of Simon Whitewell who is clamoring for his life. It takes only a little over 40 pounds of pressure to crush the trachea and the tender arteries.  He suddenly feels capable of doing it, squeezing and crushing until he falls limp to the floor.

 

“Sherlock, let him go. Getting yourself convicted for murder won't help John."

 

Lestrade, the annoying voice of reason.

 

He pulls back abruptly and Simon Whitewell crashes to the floor.  Sherlock twists away from him, he stalks out of the interrogation room and continues walking until the pounding in his ears and the ache in his chest subsides.

 

When Moriarty had kidnapped John, a hired hand had just walked up to him on the streets and led him away at gunpoint.

 

This involved forging police identifications and uniforms. Was this another part of their game? Embroiling John on a murder charge and then stealing them from out of the police noses?

 

No.

 

That cannot be it, it’s not very interesting.

 

The game would be far better played if Moriarty assured that John was falsely convicted and sent away. The Great Consulting Detective, unable…unwilling, to cheat to prove his own flatmate innocent. It’s what Sherlock would have done, had their roles been reversed.

 

But, how does Glen Reese, fit into it all? Who had collected him at the hospital?

 

There must be something he's not seeing.

 

Sherlock turns and finds Lestrade standing a few feet behind him. He’s putting on his best frown, but there’s real worry behind it. He’s about to give Sherlock some sort of lecture, about how John’s going to be all right (of course he is, the alternative is unthinkable) and how Sherlock will figure it all out (obviously). He doesn’t want Lestrade’s sympathetic smile or foolish well wishes. He’ll only ever permit those from John.

 

“I need to know how those two managed to pass security checks, then I want to see the scene the warehouse where the car was found.”

 

“I thought you said your brother's men had been over that place with a fine tooth comb,” Lestrade mutters.

 

“They will have missed something.”

 

Lestrade has recognized when not to pursue a particular line of enquiry and instead beckons Sherlock to follow him down the corridor towards his office. Sherlock may be able to function without food, but it’s well past tea time and Lestrade hasn’t had anything since a measly bag of crisps since lunch.

 

“Tell me again how the ID cards are made.”

 

“They are embedded with overt, covert and forensic features."Lestrade lectures "they have magnetic stripe encoding.”

 

Lestrade hands Sherlock his security card and Sherlock grabs it with two fingers, twisting it around to study the guilloche pattern, flickering in vivid colors of blue and silver. This precise, repetitive pattern, created by a mathematical formula and almost impossible to copy. There is a digital image of Lestrade on the back, from before he met Sherlock and had less grey in his hair.

 

Sherlock lifts the card up towards the light and studies how the optical variable ink changes with every angle.

 

"The Warden said the identification cards raised no flags when he ran them through the system. Look, I know what you are thinking but those cards are impossible to fake.”

 

Sherlock remains silent, prompting Lestrade to add.

 

“The cards aren’t printed at the Yard, you need to go to the Thames House to pick them up. There's a printer registration number that is made by something they are call opacity mark printing. Not to mention the lamination, the micro text, and…. other technical shite. You can't just go down to Snappy Happy Photo and get one of these made. You can't even activate them without a superior officer following you to Thames House and confirming the identification with the logs.”

 

Not for the first time Sherlock laments the inadequacies of the English education. When is Lestrade going to learn the nuances and subtleties of language.

 

“Your superior officer or any superior officer?”

 

Lestrade looks puzzled, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“Can you,” Sherlock says slowly “collect and activate the cards with the presence of any superior officer?”

 

“Well,” Lestrade concedes,  “sure.”

 

“Obviously there's somebody of a high rank involved.” Sherlock starts before Lestrade grabs his arm and yanks him into the nearest, empty office. He clicks the door shut and pulls down the blinds, before wheeling in on Sherlock.

 

“What!” He hisses. “Do you mean?”

 

If the situation had been less severe (if John’s life weren't at stake) Sherlock would have taken the time to properly reprimand Lestrade for being unable to pay attention.

 

“Obviously someone knew John was being moved. Someone organized the uniforms and the identifications to such an extent that the Warden did not react to two unfamiliar constables walking off with a prisoner.”

 

"Well…."

 

"How many would have access to that kind of information? Not to mention the timing of it all."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"At first this all seems rather simple. Simon Whitewell and Jane Hill disguises themselves as police officers and walks off with a prisoner. But the more we uncover, the more complex the case is, the more planned it is proving to be. Simon Whitewell said that Jane Hill contacted him two days ago." Sherlock stalks the length of the room, spins on his heel and returns. "Who would have known, two days ago, that John Watson would be imprisoned at Scotland Yard? Somebody had the connections to have the cards manufactured, the uniforms. It is like he’s showing off." Sherlock makes sweeps his arms about the room, painting his frustration in the air. "'Look at me, I can forge police identifications, you think these are the only fakes ones.'"

 

"Fuck, you think this is Moriarty?" Lestrade's voice is low, tinged with dread.

 

Sherlock doesn't answer. He doesn't want to put words to the fission of apprehension that’s lurking in the back of his mind. He’s uncertain for the first time in many years. The more facts he uncovers, the more evident it becomes that this a tangled web and that Fenway’s murder and John’s kidnapping  isn’t the end game.

 

That Moriarty may well have bested him in this turn.

 

In lieu of a proper reply he declares: "I am going to the warehouse in Brenton."

 

Lestrade combs a hand through his hair. "What about Adrian Reese?"

 

"He's hardly going anywhere."

 

 

 

The area around the warehouse has been cordoned off with crime-scene tape and a couple of technicians in blue overalls are combing the nearby shrubberies. Large, portable flood lights have been lit to combat the encroaching winter darkness.

 

"Mr. Holmes?"

 

Sherlock turns and sees a woman approaching him. She is dressed in a tailored coat, and her grey hair is kept in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her gait is a little wobbly (shrapnel, damaged the muscles in the knees).

 

"My name is Constance." She hands Sherlock a thick folder and continues without preamble. "We've found several cigarette butts and beer cans, but it is evident by their condition that they have been here for some time, and so we do not believe they pertain to this investigation. There was a brief shower of rain at from 06:13 am to 08:45. That allows us to conclude with some certainty that the tire marks we have recovered belongs to the vehicle you are seeking. The car they moved to, stood here for some time. From the location of all four tires, and along with tire size and tread design we have been able to narrow down the potential model of cars. Though Mr. Holmes told us, you were likely to want to confirm our conclusions for yourself."

 

Sherlock flips through the files until he finds the pictures of the tire tracks. A Ford Focus, with 1.5 million sold it's the most common car in Great Britain. The same car model that collected Glen Reese from the hospital.

 

"Any CCTV?"

 

Constance folds her hands at the small of her back. "The nearest security camera is at a gas station four point seven miles from here. The police vehicle passes it just before ten am. From six am until three pm we have identified fifteen vehicles of the same model as we are searching for. We are currently running their registration numbers, but so far none of the cars has come up as stolen or belonging to anybody with a criminal record. Mr. Holmes said that there would information on the cars at your usual place.»

 

"There are other roads that could take you to this warehouse."

 

"Two. There is, of course, no way to tell if they switched cars again."

 

"Fingerprints from the police car?"

 

"As you would expect, a dozen or so partials, not including those belonging to Simon Whitewell, Jane Hill and Doctor Watson. We found this in the front seat."

 

Constance pulls a clear plastic bag from her pocket and hands it to Sherlock. It's the same vitamin B bottle he saw in Glen Reese's bathroom. "It's been wiped clean of fingerprints."

 

"Our lab will confirm it," Constance continues, "but that is most likely suppressants. There's only two physicians in London who describes this type, the late Doctor Fenway and Doctor Mizuno."

 

 

 

It’s past midnight by the time he returns to 221 B Baker Street. The search of the warehouses yielded no other information than what Constance shared and Lestrade has absolutely forbidden him from questioning Adrian Reese until tomorrow. As Sherlock had said himself, the guy was hardly going anywhere.

 

A sharp headache is making itself present behind his eyes.

 

There is a cold kettle of tea sitting at John’s table along with a small tray of sandwiches. Mrs. Hudson, obviously. Sherlock thinks that if John was here to bully him to it, he probably would have been able to blackmail John into making a fresh pot. The two of them would have been seated quietly in their separate chairs, John reading the newspaper and Sherlock editing the latest science article. Occasionally their eyes would meet, then part and Sherlock would have been content.

 

He’s alone now, and he falls down into his chair, shutting his eyes close so hard he sees stars. He allows himself to experience the brief respite of ten heartbeats of darkness before he sits up and grabs the nearest laptop. With a few clicks on the keyboard, he's accessed he secured server Mycroft set up. There are already several folders of information, the information Constance promised him, John's phone records. Simon Whitewell’s information. Adrian and Glen Reese's and Doctor Fenway's email and phone correspondence. Whoever Jane Hill is, not even Mycroft has been able to track her down,

 

It takes him five hours to read through it all.

 

Most of John's correspondence is with Sherlock, Lestrade, Sarah and somebody named Sam. John has made four phone calls to Doctor Fenway, one on the night of the murder, and the other three made last year. They've never texted or emailed. John's phone shows only one call from Glen Reese, a little after four am, the morning after Doctor Fenway was murdered. There were no calls made since on either phone.

 

Fenway called Adrian Reese fifteen times and Glen Reese 43 times in the last fourteen months. None of the conversations lasted more than a few minutes, but it is interesting that it was always Doctor Fenway who contacted them, and never the other way around.

 

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin.

 

Glen Reese lied about calling Doctor Fenway's office.

 

Doctor Fenway's email contains an impressive amount of patient confidentiality emailed to colleagues,experts and editors of various medical journals all over the world. The publishers all turn him down and the medical profession declines any interest in Doctor Fenway's studies. The Alphas and Omegas were no longer an interesting or valuable field of study. There is nothing more to learn.

 

Two weeks ago Doctor Fenway emailed Glen Reese a copy of the manuscript for his latest book, «David». From Fenway's letters to the editors, it seems like he promises to rekindle the flame of the gender study and promises to completely upheaval the discourse. Sherlock finds himself hovering over the file, torn between satisfying his curiosity and respecting John's privacy.

 

John had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep the Omega part of his life a secret from Sherlock. On the other hand. There could be valuable information in it.

 

Sherlock unfolds himself from the chair, carrying the computer with him as he walks the length of the living room. He immerses himself fully in the text, quenching the uneasy flutter in his stomach. He can feel the muscles in his jaw tighten when he comes to the chapter on «David»’s first encounter with an Alpha. But he moves on, scoffing at the chapters dictating to analyzing, what is essentially, his and John’s relationship.

 

The sun is creeping slowly higher on the wall by the time Sherlock finishes reading. He’s staggered by a sudden wave of apprehension as several things falls to place in his mind. It’s like those first, painful jabs of withdrawal. Tiresome at first, but growing to a cacophony of agonizing pain and the only thing he could hear is the roaring thunder of pounding blood in is ears.

 

And then he realizes he’s in John’s room and doesn’t quite know how and when he got here.

 

The police have been here. John's shirts and jumpers and trousers are tossed into a crumpled pile on the floor. The books from his bookshelf have been pulled, flipped through and discarded. There’s a broken frame of John’s parents by the foot of the bed.  By the wardrobe lies the shoebox John uses to hide his commendations and letters from the army. The box is upturned and the medals are on the floor.

 

He can almost taste it on his tongue, the scent of another Alpha in John's room. It curdles on every surface, on every piece of clothing.  DI Dregs have marked John's room as his territory.

 

Anger coils along his spine. He wants to burn every piece of fabric in this room and purge it of the Alpha's presence. He wants to claw off the wallpaper and smash the furniture and fumigate the room. The anger is all encompassing, leaving room for nothing else.

 

He reins in the desire, he'll not let some foolish instincts dictate his actions. Besides. John wouldn’t appreciate having his possession destroyed. He actually likes the ridiculous jumpers (particularly the nasty beige one) and he’ll want to wear them when he gets home.

 

 

Sherlock takes a shower, allowing the heat and the pounding water against his skin to beat away the tension. (He shuts his eyes and tries to will away the memory of John's fingers against his.) He staggers out of the shower and wipes the mist away from the mirror.  He stares for a moment at his own reflection, blinking water out of his eyelashes and trying to find his equanimity. It takes him a moment, and then the blankness in his face is studied and perfected.

 

He pries open the cabinet and isn't surprised to find that John's bottle of vitamin B is missing.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I did as you asked," Lestrade fails to contain his yawn. "I talked to the Warden on duty when John was checked out, and only Jane Hill showed him her ID badge. Then I went searching in the records and had to go back almost two years to find when the card activated."

 

"DI Dregs was the superior officer who signed for it."

 

"Yes," Lestrade says. "But keep in mind that DI Dregs has been with this unit for almost eight years. He's administrated the activation dozens of cards." Lestrade holds up a hand. "I know what you're going to say. I've read DI Dregs's file. He’s a war hero. Served two tours in Iraq before he was discharged with honors. He's got a high clearance rate for cases, but not high enough to be suspicious. He used to work drug trafficking before he moved to homicide two years ago. There’s not been a single complaint raised against him."

 

Mycroft had provided the same tedious facts about DI Dregs and Sherlock keeps the implications to himself.

 

Lestrade leads the way to his office.  He falls into his chair and wipes a hand across his face.  "I take it you will want to speak with Adrian Reese today?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I'll have him brought to an interrogation room 6B. But, Christ, Sherlock…if you assault another suspect I'll see you tossed out of the Yard for good."

 

Sherlock moves to the map of London, the one they used to mark crime scenes and incidents that they suspected were related to Moriarty. It seemed like months ago he stood in this very same office, asking Lestrade, of all people, for advice on wheedling out John's secret. He had thought then that it was just John hiding his attraction to him, an attraction John could no more control than his need for food and water.

 

Suddenly, there's a loud click, and a loud whirring as the mechanical shades slides down, covering the windows. The light blinks out and the room is blanketed in a blinding darkness. It lasts for no more than a second before the emergency lights flickers alive, pale and faint. Lestrade has already moved to his desk and grabbed a torch from the bottom drawer. He swipes the beam quickly across the room, before resting it on Sherlock who is already texting away.

 

"Anything?"

 

Sherlock shakes his head and accepts the torch Lestrade is offering him. Lestrade moves to the door and opens it an inch and Sherlock can tell from the lack of sound that the corridor is empty.

 

And then, as suddenly as they vanished, the lights blinks back on and the shutters whirr away, letting in the grey sunlight.

 

"Six minutes," Sherlock says, glancing at his watch.

 

"I need to see what it was all about."

 

Lestrade returns the torches to his desk, grabs his phone and then departs.

 

Later, Sherlock will come to regret the minutes he wasted idling by the map, waiting for Lestrade to return.  He thinks John's interrogation, how worried he'd been when the book had been brought out. He thinks about the burst of rage he felt when DI Dregs cornered John in the interrogation room. He thinks about their private confession and wonders if John heard the real meaning behind it.

 

And then, with disorientating speed his synapses connects the dots and sends him rushing out of the room.

 

Sherlock ignores Anderson’s shout of protests as he barrels past him and down, down the flight of stairs and across the main hall, pushing away police constables still on high alert.

 

His throat burns and his chest aches and he’s heaving for breath by the time he yanks open the door to interrogation room 6B.

 

Adrian Reese is sitting in the chair, his hands still chained to the table. He looks somehow younger than the footage on the surveillance camera, his hair in disarray and his hands folded on the table. His head is thrown back and the wall behind him is covered in small, mist like stains of blood.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What John learns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to all of you who have supported me with your wonderful words of encouragement, kudos and comments. I utterly adore you guys and this story would not exist without your support and love. <3
> 
> A special thank you to my two pillars albinofrog, who proofread and listened to my silly ideas and held my hand through this chapter. Thanks to my Beta who yanked me away from the foul moods that just had me thinking it was best to just give up. 
> 
> You guys are lovely and wonderful. 
> 
> Thank you.

**Warning** : A brief discussion that hints at a past rape (though not in relation to the main pairing). It is not graphic or explicit. 

 

“Physicians often draw parallels between the Omega heat and hot flashes. While a hot flash may last for as little as two minutes to thirty minutes, an Omega will typically suffer for four to five days. In addition to being an internal sensation, the Omega will appear flushed and the skin will be warm to the touch. At the peak of its Heat, the Omega will experience intense and painful arousal that lasts through the Heat. It is during this stage that unmated Alphas will find the Omega intensely attractive. There have been several documented cases of Alphas attacking Omegas, because they are unable to resist the Omega, and the Omega is helpless to refuse the Alpha’s advances, no matter how unwelcome or brutal the attack is.

 

There are ways to alleviate the discomfort. Cool rooms, ice baths, or even taking suppressants will bring about an end to Heat within eight to twelve hours.”   _(Finkle., Alexander L. An Omega´s Guide 3. ed. A/O/ Press: 2010)_

  
  


**Chapter 13.**

 

John wakes, his body aching in a way it hasn´t done since the first time he experienced Hell Week in the military. He´s lying on a hard, unyielding surface and the room feels unnaturally warm. He pushes himself slowly off the floor, lifting a hand to his face.

 

He winces.

 

His right eye is swollen shut and it takes more effort than it should to crack open the left one. Bright light assaults him. His leg pulses in pain and sends him tipping forward, jolting his stomach. He coughs and gags, vomiting water and bile.

 

When the nausea subsides, John goes through his list of injuries. His leg hurts, but that is a familiar pain. His head throbs, but careful probing does not reveal any crusted blood or broken skin. His vision swims and he can´t really remember what happened- the more he tries to assemble  the pieces together, the more his head hurts. He closes his eyes for a moment and diagnoses the nausea and vertigo as signs of a light concussion

 

The handcuffs have rubbed his wrists raw, but not bloody. He gingerly touches his lips with the back of his hand and sees a pinkish smear on his skin. Busted lip. He rises slowly, cringing in pain and adds bruised ribs to his list of injuries.

 

When he slides his palm along his neck, he feels a small bump and dimly remembers Jane Hill sticking a needle in him before guiding him into the back of a police vehicle. He cannot remember anything after that and somehow not knowing how long he’s been out is more disorientating than not knowing where he is.

 

After taking stock of himself, John takes stock of his surroundings.

 

The room is small and sparsely furnished. There is a military standard cot pressed against the wall and on the opposite end is a metal toilet with a faucet. The walls are bare and made of bricks and the floor is polished concrete. There are no windows and only one door.

 

John trails his fingers along the doorframe and rattles the doorknob. It´s useless and with the few seconds he spends testing the door, he´s able to determine that it´s probably a solid steel fire door.  He presses his ear to the door, holding his breath to still the beating of his own heart. He thinks he hears the vague sounds of people talking on the other side of the door, a woman and two men.

 

With a grimace John walks over to the cot and sits down. He tugs on his collar, loosening the top button of his shirt. He folds his hands in his lap.

 

He waits.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It must be somewhere near two hours later when he hears the lock rattle. He rises from the cot and moves to the middle of the room. He's not really sure what he's expecting to happen, but he doesn't want to be caught in a vulnerable position. He holds his breath as the door is nudged open, but only a large bottle of water rolls in before the door is slammed shut.

 

John reaches down and carefully picks up  the bottle, when suddenly the door bursts open and somebody is pushed into the room. He drops the bottle and springs to catch Glen Reese before he cracks his head on the concrete. He eases him to the floor and looks up just as  the door is slamming shut.

 

“Hey, are you all right?”

 

He shakes him gently by the shoulders, but Glen Reese doesn’t respond. John runs his hand over the back of Glen Reese's head, he can't find any signs of injuries, but on his neck he feels the small bump of a needle puncture mark. He carefully lifts Reese’s eyelids open and in the pale light he can see his pinhole pupils.

 

Some sort of opiates, he thinks.  Probably the same stuff Jane Hill used to incapacitate him .

 

Glen Reese's wrists are bound by industrial strip, but loose enough that it's not difficult to slide them off his chubby hands. John grabs the blanket from the cot and folds it into a tight bundle, tucking it carefully under Glen Reese's head and then positions him in the recovery position.

 

The metal bed is uncomfortable, no matter how John  twists and turns. There's a thick feeling in his head of clotted thoughts that are struggling for attention. He ends up lying on his side with the back to the wall, staring at the back of Glen Reese’s head and wishing the man would stop popping up unannounced and complicating his life. It seems that every time Glen Reese appears, things go from bad to worse.

 

John's used to the kind of life where he chases suspects down alleys or wrestle them into submission, or, on one memorable occasion, shot at with a blow dart. He enjoys living his life like he's walking on the edge of a cliff and fighting the east wind that tries to push him over. It makes him feel alive.

 

John doesn't know anybody else who can claim a familiarity with kidnapping and being held hostage. Glen Reese is probably going to be more of a burden than an aid in his escape plan.

 

Omega.

Helpless.

Useless.

A biological redundancy.

  


John can hear Sherlock’s sultry tones in his head as vividly as if he’s sitting in the same room.

  


Maybe, John thinks rolling onto his back and staring at the white ceiling, that is why Sherlock had been so eager to pretend that John's feelings weren't there. Sherlock had deduced that John's affection was nothing more than a chemical defect: the foolish Omega mind striving for the companionship of an Alpha. An instinct almost completely eradicated from the human gene pool, if not for aberrants like him.

 

Living with Sherlock Holmes has been a crash course in being brutally honest with himself and John knows his feelings aren’t an “Omega thing.”

 

He's got to know everything about his own thoughts and emotions so that he will never be caught off guard when Sherlock deduces something about him.

 

It is because he must be honest with himself, for his own defense, that he knows that he is in love with Sherlock Holmes, and it´s not because Sherlock is an Alpha and he is an Omega. He´s on his suppressants, he´s not had a Heat ever. He´s not governed by his hormones anymore than any normal human being.

 

Sherlock has probably deduced that John is in love with him, because Sherlock is able to deduce such things even about people he´s never met before. Not that it requires the skills of a master detective.

 

The first time she met them, even Mrs. Hudson had concluded that there was  something going on between them. Irene Adler had taunted him with the knowledge. Christ, even strangers they have only known for minutes assume they are  together.

 

John wonders how obvious he is in displaying his affections.  Are the adjectives he chooses in his blog too telling? Is he too considerate when he offers to make Sherlock tea just as he knows Sherlock prefers it? Is he touching Sherlock more often than would be considered acceptable between friends, colleagues or flatmates?

 

John feels his eyelids drift shut, and he scrubs them awake.

 

Does Sherlock know that John knows that he is in love with him? And if Sherlock knows that John knows he is in love with him, how can he possibly maintain silence on the matter?

  


John finds himself suddenly practicing the confession. He did the same thing before he asked Ann Marge Sandridge out on their first date. Her reaction was easy to predict: she´d blush and stutter her favorable assessment of John and agree to go out with him. And that’s  exactly what happened.

 

He tries to picture Sherlock´s reaction.

 

“Sherlock, I am in love with you.”

 

“Don´t be pedestrian, John.”

 

Or even worse.

 

“Sherlock, I am in love with you.”

 

“Don´t be ridiculous John, it´s just your Omega hormones making you think so.”

 

Even in his fantasy, John can’t change Sherlock- can’t, imagine a Sherlock without the cold, hard, reasoning that Sherlock holds above all things.

 

It is probably why Sherlock gave him that speech after they wrapped up the Lewis's sister’s murder. He was giving John The Let's Just be Friends Speech and John didn't even realize it. Sherlock was preemptively breaking up with him.

 

“Don't you see, John.”

 

John had recognized the statement as one that had a layer of meaning under it.

 

What was he supposed to see?

 

That Sherlock knew that John was an Omega? That DI Dregs' Alpha display in the interrogation room had brought out the side of Sherlock that Sherlock himself disdains? Was John supposed to see that this was all John's chemical imbalance taking control of them?

 

John presses his palms against his eyes until the ceiling above him dances in colors and constellations.

 

He supposes he should hate Sherlock for this. For his ambiguous message, for being so goddamned dismissive of John's feelings, for reducing their relationship to a chemical equation that John has no control over.  

 

But among the many tangled emotions John has now tied up with Sherlock, he cannot ever hate him.

 

For the sake of his own preservation John really should leave.

 

It´ll break his heart of course, and the pain will burn and sting at first.

 

But it will get better.

 

He´ll be able to move on and find somebody who will love him in return.

 

But Sherlock needs him, needs John to be a barrier of reason and common sense and to insist that  he needs the occasional sandwich or bottle of water to keep himself alive. He needs John when Sherlock´s bouts of boredom and melancholy drive Sherlock to engage members of the gangs in London into a deadly game of hide and seek. To remind Sherlock to form a plan and not just wait and spring the trap, just to prove to everyone how smart he is.  

 

He fears that leaving Sherlock will have horrible, possibly fatal, consequences for Sherlock.

 

And if anything happens to Sherlock, John knows it will kill him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“David is one of the many Omegas who have chosen to live their  lives in secret. Sometimes I think David is continuously testing the odds, testing how well he can blend in with other people, with Alphas. He has chosen an Alpha dominated career and profession. He later chose an Alpha flatmate.”

 

John pushes himself off the cot and sees Jane Hill saunter into the room.  She’s reading with a dramatic flourish from a bundle of papers as if she's Hamlet delivering his famous monologue to Yorick.

 

She’s still dressed in her constable’s uniform, with the dress jacket unbuttoned and her hair gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck.  John forces his eyes away from Jane Hill and studies the man standing next to her. He´s  tall, taller than even Sherlock, with a broad chin and short, blonde hair. He carries himself with an easy lift to his shoulders that speaks of agility and speed, and the way he stands tells John that he's probably carrying a weapon.

 

Jane Hill follows John´s gaze and smiles. She nudges her companion´s shoulder playfully.

 

"This is Cobb."

 

Cobb, John thinks, is trying to smile, but it doesn´t come off quite right. It's like somebody has taken a pair of fishhooks to the edge of his mouth and pulled. Even Sherlock can command a smile- any kind of smile, even a horribly fake one, like the one he uses when he tries to sham people into trusting him or leting them into their house.

 

John calculates his odds against being able to overwhelm Jane Hill or Cobb before Cobb has time to draw his weapon. The odds are not in his favor.

 

“He´s not as happy as me to see you, but no need to worry,” her smile is sharkish.

 

“What the hell do you want?”

 

“I don´t really want anything, John, just to wait and let nature take its course.”

 

John anchors his anger in his curled fists.

 

“What are you on about?”  

 

Jane Hill gives John a significant look and it´s so similar to the one Sherlock gives him when he´s waiting for John to catch up, that it almost makes his heart stutter, "come on, come on, come on!"

 

John keeps his gaze on Jane Hill.

 

Waiting.

 

“Christ,” she laments with dismay, “are you always this thick? What does he -see- in you?”

 

“Look,” John says, relieved that he´s sounding remarkably steady and reasonable.

 

“Time, John! A few days from now-“ she pauses and gives John a calculating look, making a show of counting her fingers and doing sums in her head.

 

“You´ve been without your suppressants for a couple of days now. Soon you´ll be in your Heat.”

 

“What?”

 

How could she possibly know?

 

Jane Hill grins and pulls  a bottle out of her pocket and shakes it, as if John’s a cat she’s trying to tease. John recognizes the bottle easily enough; it’s the same type of vitamin B he’s got in the bathroom cabinet.

 

And suddenly John catches up with Jane Hill's plan with disorienting speed.

 

"Now you´re getting it! Your first Heat in what…almost twenty years?" She pats his knee and smiles, "it’s gonna be fun."

 

Shite, John’s never had a proper Heat. He read about them when he first learned that he was an Omega, but Doctor Fenway gave him access to suppressants and since then he never thought about it.

 

“I can´t wait,” Jane Hill says in a harsh breath “to see how Sherlock Holmes reacts when he comes to rescue you, only to catch scent of how…alluring you smell. You think he´s going to be able to maintain control over his "transport?”

 

They both know the answer, and John doesn’t know which prospect is worse, his or Sherlock’s humiliation.

 

The relationship that they had worked so hard to maintain would be damaged beyond repair. John would be devastated, but Sherlock would be ruined.

 

And then.

 

Suddenly his mind catches up with several things in Jane Hill's statements that are just plain odd.

 

Who are the 'we' she referred to? Herself and Cobb? What vested interested could they possibly have in Sherlock and his relationship? How could she possibly know how Sherlock preferred to think of his own body?

 

“So this is your grand, master scheme?”

 

Jane Hill spares him a nasty look, “hardly my scheme.”

 

Great, John thinks. He schools his features, the more she talks, the more she reveals.

 

“No?”

 

Her lips curl back, baring her teeth.

 

“Nice try, Johnny boy.”

 

John can feel his defiance rising, and his throat dips as he swallows back his words. There’s no reason to risk antagonizing her, he’s not the only one in danger after all.

 

“Ugh, what’s that repulsive smell?”

 

Jane Hill takes a step into the room and glares at  the puddle of John’s sick on the floor. She wrinkles her nose.

 

“Lovely.”

 

“You should let Glen Reese go, he’s got nothing to do with this,” John says.

 

Her lips twist.

 

“We should just let him go, you say?”

 

“You want me as some sort of bait for Sherlock,” John struggles to put the words into a coherent sentence, “then why is Glen Reese here, he’s no threat to…to anybody!”

 

“For being the assistant to  the world’s only consulting detective, you’re not very bright,” Jane Hill says in a voice that suggests that she is actually disappointed.

 

“Glen Reese is…..key to this whole plan.”

 

John swallows hard. Suddenly his chest feels tight, and for a moment it’s difficult to breathe.

 

Does she mean that Glen Reese is…Christ, is he some sort of back up bait? Is he supposed to spur John to submit to Sherlock in fear of-

 

Christ, he can’t even finish the thought.

 

For a second John worries that Jane Hill has suddenly gained access to his deepest, darkest thoughts because she starts laughing. A harsh, braying, laugh that makes his hackles rise.

 

“Don’t you worry, John, you’ll get your man.”

 

Jane Hill tosses her head and Cobb moves slowly towards the door, keeping his gun trained on John as Jane Hill moves to the doorway.

 

“Why don’t you use this time to think about it, hm?” She suggests with a leering wink, before slamming the door shut.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

This time John wakes in an instant with a desperate panic, like he´s clawing out of his own grave. He can’t remember falling asleep, and in one terrifying heartbeat he doesn’t recognize his surroundings. Then he sees Glen Reese standing over him with a concerned frown.

 

“Are you alright, Dr. Watson? You were mumbling in your sleep.”

 

John wipes a hand across his face and blinks until his vision clears. The room is desperately warm and he can feel beads of sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

 

“Yeah, just…..”   

 

Glen Reese offers him his hand and hoists John up from the cot. The room dances around him. John sways and Glen Reese grabs him carefully by the shoulder, steadying him.

 

“You’re sure? You seem a bit unsteady, Doctor Watson.”

 

“It’s just my leg,” John winces and massages his thigh, kneading the pain until it's nothing but a dull ache.

 

“Here, drink some water,” Glen Reese pushes a bottle into his hands and John takes a long gulp of the stale water.

 

“It's viciously warm in here.” John wipes his brow, his skin is hot and slick with sweat and his head throbs with the pain of a fever. He unbuttons two more buttons on his shirt, but it does not make him feel any cooler.

 

“Um…yeah,” Glen Reese offers with a tight grin. He takes a seat on the cot, but John seeks the relief of the cool concrete, placing his flushed palms against the smooth floor. He wants to remove his shoes and socks, he wants to feel the cool concrete under the soles of his feet, but being barefoot would impair any escape attempt.

 

He feels a trickle of sweat peal down the center of his spine and he shudders.

 

Christ, is this what hot flashes feels like? He remembers his mom suffering from them, when there were days when she was unable to get out of bed and they'd used the electrical fans on full speed, and opened the windows, even in the dead of winter.

 

He needs something to distract himself. He closes his eyes for a moment and hears himself asking.

 

“How did you end up here?”

 

He can hear Glen Reese pull in a deep breath before answering, “I don't really remember.”

 

“I suspect you were drugged,” John says, looking up at him “you’ve got a puncture mark on your neck, same as I.”

 

“Is that why I was woozy when I woke up?”

 

John wipes his sleeve under his chin, mopping up beads of sweat.

  
“Yeah,” he swallows, his throat dry, “do you feel nauseous, dizzy, any headache?”

 

“No,” Glen Reese replies, “I feel fine.”

 

Glen Reese clasps his hands together, resting them in his lap. His feet tap an uneven rhythm against the floor in tandem with John’s pulsing headache.

 

“What do you think they want?”

 

“I….” John starts. Jane Hill had explained why they had taken John here, but why was Glen Reese here? That didn't make any sort of sense.

 

“I don't know. Didn't Jane Hill tell you anything while I was unconscious? She seemed very eager to tell me why I'm here.”

 

Glen Reese fidgets, plucking at a loose thread on his pants.

 

“No. She didn't tell me anything.”

 

John pinches the bridge of his nose and wills away the thundering pain behind his eyes. Jane Hill had said that Glen Reese is important. But how? Why? He’s just… John pictures the large and stuffy furniture in Glen Reese’s apartment, his chubby fingers as he dabbed a napkin against his mouth. The way his chin wobbled when he spoke. The way he had sobbed into his telephone. His figure, prone and helpless on his bathroom floor.

 

He can’t figure out what part Glen Reese is supposed to play in this harebrained scheme.

 

John shakes his thoughts away and asks, “what's the last thing you do remember?”

 

“I was in the hospital and then I woke up here.”

 

The hospital.

 

John thinks back to the morning when Glen Reese had called for his aid. Had it only been two days ago? It seemed like a lifetime away, back when he still had some semblance of control over his life. When he still had his secret.

 

“What about you, Doctor Watson? How did you end up here?" John glances over at Glen Reese. He stares back, his eyes suddenly calculating.

 

And John gets the distinct impression that Glen Reese is trying to assess his reaction.

 

Instantly cautious, it takes John a moment to sort out his reply.

 

“I was taken from the Yard by two people posing as police constables, the woman who brought you here and another man. I haven’t seen him yet.”

 

“Why were you at the police station?”

 

John pushes himself up from the floor, not wanting to have to look up at Glen Reese. It takes him two steps before the room stops lurching, but he feels, illogically, safer after putting some distance between them.

 

He may not know the man all that well, but during all of their encounters Glen Reese had always been a flustered, bumbling man. Two days ago he was sobbing into his telephone at the crack of dawn. John had dragged his unconscious form out of the bathtub before handing him over to paramedics. But, now he's sitting here in a cell, having been  drugged and kidnapped, calm and poised.

 

“I….was arrested on  suspicion of Fenway's murder,” John says slowly.

 

“Oh,” Glen Reese averts his eyes and starts to fiddle with a loose strand on the mattress.

 

There's another moment of silence. John rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and takes another heavy drink from the water. He combs a hand through his hair, feeling it already plastered to his forehead and curling around his ears. Christ, even in his full military gear and dragging around medical equipment in the middle of the desert, he hadn't been this hot.

 

“You didn't kill him,” Glen Reese says in a tone that makes John uncertain if it's a statement or a question.

 

“No. Of course not.”

 

“But why did they think you did it?”

 

John folds his arms over his chest and rests his back against the corner. He keeps his gaze firmly on Glen Reese, who is smiling, small and tight and John suddenly feels like he’s locked in a cage with an angry predator moments before it strikes.

 

He wills away the panicky feeling in his chest and says calmly.

 

“There was some circumstantial evidence. I had been at his office the same evening he was killed and they found my fingerprints on his desk.Somebody had heard us arguing...”

 

“Because of the book?”

 

John goes still, suddenly on full alert. There’s something not right here, he’s missed something, he just can’t figure out what it is. He opens his mouth, but he’s got no idea what to say. Should he deny it? Why does Glen Reese look like he already knows the answer?

 

“Yes,” John admits, pressing his lips into a thin line.

 

“I guess that's all my fault,” Glen Reese says in a voice that somehow suggests that he isn't at all apologetic. “I mean, I shouldn't have shown you that book,” Glen Reese explains, “if I hadn't you wouldn't have gone to see Doctor Fenway, nor been suspected of his murder, nor been kidnapped.”

 

John raises his shoulders, “it sure seems like a lot of trouble to go through, just to get me kidnapped when a gun to my back on my way home from work would have worked just as well.”

 

“Well, maybe they just wanted to prove a point,” Glen Reese snaps.

 

John agrees that Glen Reese probably has a point. Being able to snatch him from the custody of Scotland Yard was probably mostly about the theatrical display. A way to show them, show Sherlock, how long their reach extended. How very clever they were.

 

He tugs on his collar and at the knees of his pants feeling drops of sweat run down the back of his legs. His jeans are plastered to his skin and chafe with every moment.

 

“Would it be so bad?”

 

John hears the creak of the cot as Glen Reese rises and walks the length of the room, standing with his hands tucked under his armpits, thumbs visible and pointing up.

 

“What?”

 

“To be with your Alpha.”

 

John wants to point out that he doesn’t have an Alpha, and that it’s not about not wanting to be with Sherlock, (because he wants that more than anything,) but having their consent removed. He doesn’t want pheromones or any sort of….natural instinct involved in their relationship. No matter what form it takes.

 

“You're going to have your Heat very soon,” Glen Reese says with a nod at John's disheveled figure, “that's why you're so warm and uncomfortable. Don't worry, it gets worse.”

 

“Worse?” John croaks.

 

“When you reach the arousal phase. Your pulse rate will increase; respiration levels are elevated, your muscles tense, it will be like a horrible itch that you can’t scratch, and It. Will. Drive. You. Mad. It lasts for hours, days, until you're so exhausted you can't even move, and so desperate you don't care with whom or how you get your release.”

 

John wets his lips and balls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms until it hurts.

 

“You've never had one before,” Glen Reese continues as if they're just sharing a nice chat about the weather, “my first one was terrible.”

 

“I'm…” John starts, not knowing how to complete the sentence. He's sorry Glen Reese had a painful experience, but he has an inkling that Glen Reese isn't at all that accepting of  John's feelings of sympathy or remorse.

 

“I didn't even know what was happening, that I was….different,” Glen Reese says, and then he turns away from John and addresses his next statement to the door.

 

“I was at the Student Union pub, just having finished my exam, celebrating with a couple of mates, you know. What teenagers do.”

  


John feels like somebody just knocked all the air out of him and his brain runs riot down memory lane. Of course he knows, this is…this is his story.

 

“I stayed up late with my friends, which I never did, because I was serious about my studies. I wanted to do well, impress my parents and grandparents.  I only had two beers, and was feeling terribly warm and woozy. I was never much of a drinker, so I just thought it was part of that,” his voice is clipped with anger, “I thought this is what it was like when you got drunk. So, I figured I'd best get on home and sleep it off.”

 

John sees the angry, taunt T of Glen Reese's shoulders as his posture straightens.

 

“I wasn't more than a couple of blocks from the Union, when this man…I just remember thinking he's very tall and very, very angry.”

 

“I…” John can’t go on, he wants to say something, anything, but the words are stuck in his throat and he’s certain he can feel them trapped, a sharp, hard, mass.

 

“And after, he was….nice and gentle. Nobody had ever shown interest in me that way before. He stroked my hair, cradled me in his arms, and kissed the back of my neck. And I remember feeling safe, like I belonged. Isn't that just the sickest and most twisted thing, this man, who'd just assaulted me, made me feel wanted?”

 

John’s heart is hammering against his ribs.

 

“Glen-“ John struggles for something; anything to say until treacherous memory thrusts something at him, “you said you met your husband when he saved you.”

 

Glen Reese laughs gruffly, “because anybody would admit to marrying the man who’d assaulted them?”

 

John feels his shame flare across his cheek.

 

“The day after our encounter he took me to see Doctor Fenway, who explained to me what I was, who told me I was lucky,” he lets out a shaky breath, “lucky to find somebody. That we were meant to be together. So we stayed together. I dropped out of university. My Alpha said there wasn't really a need for an expensive education, and he provided me with everything I needed. He was…strict and possessive and I liked it, I liked being owned. To feel like I was important to somebody. I wasn't really…my own person anymore, just his.”

 

Glen Reese turns back to John, but John hardly recognizes him...his mouth an angry slant with a tightness in his eyes John's not seen since he stared into the face of the insurgent who was milliseconds away from stabbing a knife into his neck.

 

“When I met you, John, I was…so happy. I had never met another Omega before and I thought….I thought you would understand what it was like, to enjoy being with somebody who’s possessed you so completely.”

 

John shuts his eyes tightly, “Glen, I…” he tries again.

 

“But you're not like me…or like any of the books tell us we are. You didn't even want to talk about it, you didn’t even want to use the word Omega. You didn't even want to know me.”

 

John grits his teeth, “that's not true,” he says, knowing it's a weak lie.

 

“Don't you dare,” Glen Reese's lips curl into a sneer, “and then, when my Alpha met you outside the pub, and he recognized you… he suddenly wasn’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t good enough. And I did exactly as Doctor Fenway and all the books told me to do, changed my interests, changed the way I dressed, but he just wouldn’t shut up about you.”

 

“That's not-“

 

“If only you'd submit to that Alpha you're living with, you wouldn't even be a blip on his radar, but no, you just had to defy your nature, and then…then…” he snarls, “ I read about how you learned you were an Omega. And I realized…” Glen Reese is trembling with rage, “that somebody actually did rescue you.”

 

“You're actually-“

 

“Why did you get rescued and not me? If you had just….then he would have left me alone!”

 

No.

That's impossible.

 

The pieces fall into place in the  blink of an eye, and for a brief moment he wonders if this is what it's like to be Sherlock, noticing all the little details and nuances, seeing the entire picture so vividly it almost hurts when everybody else sees only vague shapes and shadows.

 

“You showed me the book on purpose.  You wanted me to go to Doctor Fenway's office-“

 

“The old idiot tried to warn you, but you didn't even realize-“

 

“Bloody hell, I thought there…” John combs a hand through his hair, struggling to cling to his last shreds of restraint, “you were there, in the office- you killed him?”

 

John thinks about the way Doctor Fenway was murdered, the bruises, the restraint and the bullets that missed him.

 

Glen Reese hunches his shoulders, his jaw tightening, “shooting somebody isn't as easy as the movies and books would have it.”

 

Bloody hell.

 

John wipes a hand down his face, his thoughts racing every which way, “why…” he clamors for his composure, “why go through all this trouble to…what, get your revenge?”

 

“When I first noticed that my Alpha's interest had shifted, I went on the internet and….and I tried to find some tips on how to…how to keep him, keep him interested, how to make him stay. I tried everything.”

 

John feels the sour taste of bile in his mouth, and he tries to swallow it down, but it just grows.

 

“But nothing was working, he just…kept on talking about you! But then I met this person online, a guy who called himself Jacob. He said he had the most ingenious way to get even with you and Doctor Fenway, and everybody else, and…all I had to do was exactly as he said, and the plan, it was so brilliant!”

 

“You…” John swallows, “you met a guy online who…told you how to murder Doctor Fenway, have me framed for it and have me…kidnapped from prison?”

 

Dear Consulting Criminal, help me to eliminate the man who has stolen my husband’s interest.

 

Glen Reese narrows his eyes at John.

 

“So?”

 

“Glen… and that….it didn't…. You're such an idiot!”

 

“You're only sour because I bested you, you and that Alpha detective. He's not going to be able to resist you when you peak and then, then my Alpha will lose his interest in you and come back to me.”

 

John crosses the distance between them in two angry strides and grabs the front of Glen Reese's shirt, yanking him forward until they're almost pressed nose to nose.

 

“You bloody great git!”

 

Glen Reese tries to twist free, but John's grip remains firm.

 

“That man, you've no idea who’ve you’ve got yourself involved with!”

 

“I know he helped me,”  Glen Reese scoffs and manages to pry John's finger loose.

 

“That man is dangerous!”

 

Glen Reese's lips curl into a vicious smile and he pushes John away.

 

“To you, maybe."

 

He walks over to the door and knocks on it, five times in quick succession. The door opens and Jane Hill saunters in with a grin and a gun pointed at John.

 

“You guys have a nice chat?”

 

“Yes,” Glen Reese says, straightening the wrinkles John's fists caused on his shirt, “the best.”

 

“Glen,” John says never taking his eyes off the barrel of the gun, “that man, Jacob…or whatever he called himself. His real name is Moriarty and-“

 

“You know what, Doctor Watson,” Glen Reese says, pressing his lips into a white line, “you ruined my life, it's only fair I get to ruin yours.”

 

He disappears through the doorway, and Jane Hill winks at John, before walking slowly backwards out of the room.

 

The door slams shut.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of you had some theories about the "main plot," and I'd be very interested to hear your thoughts on it. Please feel free to contact me in comments or on tumblr, http://friolerofiction.tumblr.com/


	14. Chapter 14.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Glen learns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish to thank you all for your enormous support, this story would not be here without you. <3
> 
> A lot of thanks to my beta, albinofrog, who does not give up on me, you are wonderful! My beta finished editing this at 3 am, and I, being very eager to post it, is posting it at 6 am, after just a quick skim-through. I may go back and edit it slightly later on.
> 
> Please read and review.

Warning: for some violence.

 

“Most research is focused on the affect of an Omega losing an Alpha, the Alpha´s perspective have been somewhat neglected, ~~probably because it is such a rare occurrence.~~   Omegas remain with their mates for the comfort and protection they provide, while an Alpha will be interested in ~~spreading~~ his genetic heritage. ~~My recent acquaintanceship with Jacob has allowed me the rare opportunity to fill the gaps in the study.~~ What I have observed is thusly while the consequences for the Omega may be serious,  its effects does not last more for an hour or two. ~~(Nature´s way of protection?)~~ The Alpha, suffered severe neurological breakdown. When the Alpha Noah’s Omega mate Adam  was ~~killed,~~ Noah showed symptoms of neurodegeneration within hours ~~.  It was most fascinating to watch.~~ Within days  he was diagnosed with early stage dementia, which worsened throughout its progress.  Parallels can certainly be drawn with Alzheimer’s disease.”  (Unpublished notes of Fenway, G. MD. Date unknown. )

 

 

**Chapter  14.**

**“** Shut it, whelp!”

“Now, look here….”

“Get away from me!”

“Don´t hurt him, he was very specific with his instructions- nobody would really get hurt!

 

John wakes to the sound of angry voices, of furniture being pushed around, a door slammed shut.

 

His shirt is plastered to his skin and beads of sweat trickle down his forehead, stinging his eyes. After wiping a hand down his face, he swings his legs to the floor. Standing is a monumental effort. His shirt is unbuttoned, and his pants rolled up as far as dignity allows. Since seeking the opportunity to escape is always at the forefront of his mind and whatever challenges await him (unlike Sherlock) John prefers to face them wearing his pants, which is really, quite sensible. He walks carefully over to the door, and presses his ear against the crack.   Unfortunately the only thing he can hear is the pain in his head, swelling in waves of white static and curling down his spine, a steady, pounding beat of arousal and he has to brace himself against the cot to keep from rubbing up against it.

 

John doesn’t know what is worse, the shame of being desperately hard or the feeling of his skin on fire.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

He forces his eyes shut and starts the repetition.

 

The Scaphoid bone.

The Trapeziun bone.

The Trapezoid bone.

 

Five metacarpals bone.

Fourteen phalanges.

 

He goes through the list of bones in the human hand, again and again.

 

Lunate.Triguetrum.Pisiform.Capitate.Hamate.

 

He works his way through the 206 bones in the human body, from head to distal phalanges.

 

When that no longer works as a distraction, he forces himself through sit ups until the ache in his leg and shoulder is worse than the one in his groin. Whatever happens, he refuses to let his biology partake in this absurd plan: trussed up as though he’ll make an exciting prize for Sherlock.

 

No.

 

For Sherlock’s Alpha, the one he’d seen a glimpse of when DI Dregs had cornered him in the interrogation room. The feral creature the detective keeps locked away and John cannot deny that he’d liked how they’d been drawn to each other, how Sherlock had permitted him to seek comfort in his presence. But John knows the gesture was mindlessly instinctive on Sherlock’s part.

 

Christ, it had taken all of his self-control not to press himself onto Sherlock, like a cat in heat.

 

The memory makes him hard, and John laces his fingers together to keep them still.

 

The Scaohoid bone.

The Trapeziun bone.

The Trapezoid bone.

 

He’d take the bloody explosive vest over having to stew in his deceptive hormones.  

 

No matter how much he’s in love with Sherlock, no matter how much he wanted him to swoop in, greatcoat and all, and just, take and claim- John wanted their relationship,  whatever form it took, to be built on the foundation of their choices, not concocted in some harebrained scheme by Moriarty and Glen Reese.

 

_“It is almost always about love.  Imagined love, lost love, desired love.  Love drives people to act without reason and logic.  It makes people stupid, pathetic, and useless.”_

 

John chokes back a laugh.

 

How right Sherlock had been, even John’s kidnapping is motivated by Glenn Reese’s love for Adrian.

 

_“Caring is not an advantage”_

 

John remembers their confrontation in the corridor in Baker Street, when Sherlock figured out the emotions John had been hoarding. He’d looked so bloody disappointed it breaks John’s heart just thinking about it.

 

_“Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”_

 

But this was Moriarty’s grand plan, wasn’t it? To destroy Sherlock in the most devastating way.

 

The thought makes his stomach roll and for a moment he battles with nausea. He forces his eyes shut, willing away the thoughts.

 

When John wakes, how many hours later, there are two bottles of water and a package of sandwiches and crisps on the floor by his bed. A part of him wants to refuse anything his captors give him, but his logical side reminds him that he needs to replenish fluid and salt. So he eats.

 

There’s a sudden crash from the other room that makes John jolt.

 

“Don’t!” Jane Hill cries, “he said nobody would die. I didn’t sign up for- I don’t want to be associated with murder-”

 

”Shut up!” Cobb’s voice, John thinks, because it certainly doesn’t sound like Glen Reese.

 

”Just leave him be-” Jane Hill again, and then Glen Reese speaks, ”be quiet, he can hear you, you know! Omegas have excellent hearing, didn’t you guys-”

 

 

John moves to the door and presses his ear to the narrow slit between the door and the floor. They are still talking and he’s not able to disguising any words, but he can hear the angry crescendo and then the sound of something crashing to the floor, probably a chair.

 

So they are arguing. Interesting. If they aren’t fully united against him, maybe he can win one to his side. Maybe it’s not too late to make amends with Glen Reese?

 

He sits down on the cot again, running a hand through his slick hair.  It’s difficult to reconcile the flustered Glen Reese who’d visited his office all those months ago, with the stoic man who had happily revealed to John how he’d been planning all of this for weeks.

 

Glen Reese had seemed so goddamned gleeful. Proud.

 

Maybe if John hadn’t been so dismissive, maybe if John had just put on his Doctor John Watson persona, and handled Glen Reese like he did those patients that just wanted somebody to talk to. If he’d just faked a smile, a sympathetic ear, maybe things would have been different.

 

But Glen Reese had seemed so happy to be an Omega, and it had…it had grated against every inch of John’s nerves. How could anybody appreciate a biological imperative that made them beholden to seek out the protection and affections of an Alpha. Who would let a couple of spliced genes and DNA dictate what…what sort of occupation you’d seek, to let genetics make you weak and submissive against what your biology decides is the superior gender?

 

How could anybody be happy with this wretched biology that sends them into a desperate state of arousal?

 

He wipes sweat away from his eyes, resting the back of his hand on his forehead. He feels the pulsating heat, like a fever, under his skin, curling along his spine to his groin.  It’s agony, worse than those fifteen hours stranded in the desert under the scorching sun. He’d gladly take another bullet wound if it would put an end to this desperate craving for somebody, anybody, to touch him.

 

He bites his lips, shuffles his hips a little and thinks that he might just cry from the pain and humiliation of it all.

 

Somebody yanks him roughly out of sleep and John stares into Jane Hill’s face, her eyes as large as saucers. His mouth and throat feel thick, like somebody has poured sand into it, and his voice is raspy and hard when he speaks.

 

“What?”

   “You gotta come!”

 

It takes John’s groggy mind several seconds to make sense of her words, and even then he doesn’t really understand them. She wants him to go with her? Where?  But, she doesn’t give him to time to form his words into sentences before she grabs his arm and hauls him out of the cot, across the room through the door.

 

John has a split second to study his surroundings: a slender, metal, table with a couple of cartons of Chinese takeaway. Three wooden chairs. No windows, concrete floors, walls and roof encasing a solid iron door. Cobb is nowhere to be seen. All this is filed away in the back of his mind as his gaze lands on the shaking figure on the floor and then John lets years of training and instinct take control.  He falls to his knees and rolls Glen Reese onto his back, careful to avoiding his thrashing arms and jittery legs.

 

“How long?”

 

Jane Hill throws her hands into the air, “I don’t know, a few seconds?”

 

“Move the desk and those chairs away,” his voice is perfectly calm and flat. John knows that a seizure can be terrifying to watch and the last thing he needs is Jane Hill panicking.

 

Jane Hill pushes the table and the chairs to the wall.

 

“What now?” her voice is straining against her barely contained hysteria.

 

“Just wait by the door.”

 

Give panicked people instructions, and they are more likely to remain calm and stay out of your way.

 

John turns his attention to Glen Reese and with quick, practiced movements he unbuttons his shirt and unbuckles his belt to ease his breathing. Then he turns him onto his side. He’s breathing is wheezy and bile bobbles out between his lips. John counts the seconds until the shaking stops.

Almost two minutes.  

Not good.

He places his ear to Glen Reese’s mouth and hears the whistling sound of his breathing.

 

 

He gently pries his lips apart, and uses his fingers to clear his mouth of vomit and saliva. It works. Glen Reese is coughing in earnest, bile and water running down his chin and onto John’s knees. He lets the cough run its course, until Glen Reese’s breathing is calm and even.

 

“Glen,” John says, kind but firm, holding a finger in front of Glen Reese’s face. His gaze flickers about the room, before he looks at John. His eyes are glassy, his pupils struggling to focus on John’s finger.

 

“Do you know where you are?”

 

The only response is a wrecked cough.

 

“What the hell is wrong with him?”

 

John glances over his shoulder.  Jane Hill has tucked herself into a corner, arms folded over her chest, her gun still holstered at her hip.

 

“A seizure,” John explains. He looks down on Glen Reese who is still staring at him, his expression agitated, angry.

 

“Have you experienced seizures before or do you have any medical conditions, epilepsy, diabetes?”

 

Glen Reese’s arm is sluggish and heavy as he tries to grasp John’s arm, as if to push it away, but John catches his hand in his, stilling the movement.

 

“It’s going to be alright,” he assures, “rest here awhile.”

 

He tucks Glen Reese’s arm under his head, shifting his legs until he’s in the recovery position. Then he stands, glancing around the room for a moment, before wiping the vomit from his fingers on his pants.

 

“What happened?”

 

“He just fell over and started….” Jane Hill waves a hand in Glen Reese’s direction.

 

“Was he complaining of a headache before the seizure occurred? Did he fall and hit his head? Did he have trouble speaking or complain about fuzzy vision?”

 

Jane Hill bites her lower lip, “he was complaining about a stomach ache, and that he was dizzy, but I thought it was just the food.”

 

John walks over to the cartoons of Chinese takeaway and sniffs the content. He can’t smell anything but the sweet and spicy oriental mix of chicken and pork.

 

“You ate this as well?”

 

Jane Hill nods, unable to stop her gaze from flicking to the man on the floor.

 

“If he has another seizure, or if he, in an hour, doesn’t respond normally when you speak to him, if he doesn’t know where he is, if he vomits, or is unable to stand, you need to call for an ambulance.”

 

John can see the conflict fighting its way through Jane Hill’s expressions, annoyance, fear, guilt, until she settles on pressing her lips into a thin, white line. Her right hand creeps slowly to the hilt of her gun, seeking comfort.

 

John doesn’t think there’ll be an ambulance for Glen Reese.

 

“Until then, you need to watch him. Don’t give him anything to eat or drink.”

 

He doesn’t wait for Jane Hill to withdraw her weapon, he returns to his cell and collapses on the cot.

 

It’s not more than twenty minutes later, when the door is pushed open again and John knows immediately that Glen Reese is having another seizure.

 

He doesn’t waste a second.

 

“Help me move him.”

 

Together they pull Glen Reese onto his side, and this time water and bile trickle freely from his mouth. Without any medical equipment, John can’t do more than guide his patient through the tremors, making sure his thrashing limbs doesn’t hit anything.

 

John counts the seconds, and this time the seizure lasts almost three minutes.

 

Very much not good.

 

“Jane-” John starts, drawing a deep breath, “ if this continues, if we don’t get him to a hospital, he’s at risk for serious brain injury, or worse.”

 

Jane Hill chews on the inside of her cheek, and John sees her eyes scanning the room seeking advice and finding none.

 

The final spasms finally leave Glen Reese’s body and he sucks in a lungful of air before his body deflates. John pushes away his collar and finds his pulse, and after a few jittery beats it slows down to a sluggish, even rhythm.

 

“Glen,” John asks, shaking the man gently by the shoulders. His head lolls to one side and he struggles to open one bleary eye at John. This time, there’s no malice in his expression, just an empty, vacant glare.

 

“Glen,” he repeats, “do you know where you are?”

 

Glen Reese wets his lips, “no, I…..”

 

“He doesn’t know where we are,” Jane Hill says archly, “for…security reasons.”

 

John can read the hidden meanings in her words: they don’t really trust him.

 

Was that what the argument had been about?

 

“Do you know who I am?”

 

Glen Reese narrows his focus on John. John can almost see the gears clicking and turning as his brain pieces together his memory and makes sense of his surroundings. If nothing else, it’s a good sign.

 

“Yes, I know,” Glen twists away from John, and then he’s struggling to sit up, but John grabs his arm again, halting his movement.

 

“You need to relax for a few more minutes, Glen.”

 

John stands, dabbing his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He detests this feeling of helplessness. He’s a doctor, he’s a soldier, for god’s sake, he should be able to do something more.

 

He finds Jane Hill’s eyes.

 

“He needs medical aid, now.”

 

He can see her swallowing whatever words she’s about to say. She turns away from him, and even if she’s trying to hide her expression John can easily read vulnerability in the hunched set of her shoulders. He remembers the argument he overheard, Jane Hill doesn’t want to be associated with murder.

 

John pulls his wet collar away from the back of his neck, glad for the temporary coolness against his skin.

 

An hour later, Glen Reese has his third seizure. Jane Hill stands rigid by the door, her hand curled slightly over the hilt of her gun, and her expression utterly terrified.

 

This one is more violent than the others, his arms and legs thrash, and John has to hold  Glen’s head in his lap to stop him from banging it against the floor. When the tremors subside, the only response John gets from Glen Reese is torpid mumbling. He’s unable to keep his eyes open.

 

“I can’t stress how serious this is,” John hisses.

 

“I can’t call the paramedics,” Jane Hill snaps, “you’ll have to wait for your detective to figure out where you are and come to the rescue.”

 

He’s never doubted Sherlock’s deductive skills before, but now he’s wondering what’s taking him so long.

“Glen doesn’t have the luxury of waiting.”

 

Jane Hill sighs, her hand still playing with hilt of her gun. She’d seemed comfortable with the weapon when she’d trained it on him, but her jerky movements make him doubt her experience. Those confident with a weapon don’t need to reassure themselves of its presence.

 

John wonders if he’d be able to disarm her before she could pull the gun on him. Without Cobb around and with Glen Reese incapacitated, the odds are undoubtedly in his favor.  She might have been reading his mind. The muscles in her jaw bunch and relax and with a jerk of her hand, she has the gun free of its holster and pointed at John.

 

“Don’t even think about it.”

 

John raises his hands in defense, taking a step away, “I wasn’t….”

 

“We were warned not to let our guard down around you.”

 

John balls his hands into fists, “I’m just worried about Glen Reese.”

 

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” John bites, “whatever else I am, I’m a doctor first.”

 

She laughs, harsh and sharp, “your profile did say you had strong caretaking tendencies. It’s very omega of you,” she says the last part as if it’s something disgusting, and John anchors his anger in his fists.

 

“Glen Reese is-”

 

“Are you really going to try and convince me you care about the man who’s planned all this?” She makes a small gesture with her gun that seems to encompass the room, Glen Reese’s still form and John.

 

“Glen Reese didn’t plan this,” John says “Moriarty did.”

 

“But Glen Reese wanted it to happen. He wanted it so badly he didn’t mind going along with Moriarty’s plan, even if it meant committing murder.”

 

John doesn’t want to concede that Jane Hill may very well have a point, so instead he says, “and what’s your reason for getting involved in this.”

 

“Money,” comes her quick reply, “when my part’s done, I’m off to sunnier climate.”

 

“Even if it means Glen Reese’s life?”

 

For a second, John thinks he sees a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but then she squares her posture and lowers her gun.

 

“We were only instructed not to kill you, that doesn’t mean I can’t shoot you in the foot. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to survive another gunshot wound,” a serrated smile spreads across her face. “Or do you think your detective won’t have you if you’re limping around properly this time? Maybe he can cure a psychosomatic limp, but I doubt he can cure muscle and nerve damage.”

 

“You won’t get a rise out of me,” John says calmly, even though he feels his defiance mounting. Best to show her that he isn’t afraid.

 

He takes a step towards Jane Hill, only to be halted by the gun again.

 

“Look, just…lock me up, and then take Glen Reese to the hospital.”

 

Jane Hill laughs, and it’s shaky, insincere, “you don’t think my face will raise  all the flags on the first CCTV camera I cross. I’ve been told to remain here until instructed further.”

 

“Just-”

 

“No!” She grits her teeth and squares her shoulders again, “I’m sorry Glen Reese is ill, I mean, he’s just a helpless Omega, but I won’t risk the-” she swallows, finding her words, “I won’t risk my end of the bargain.”

 

Jane Hill gestures with her gun for John to take a seat in one of the chairs.

 

“Sit down. When Cobb gets back, he’ll take Glen Reese and dump him somewhere he’ll be found.”

 

John snorts, “you mean, he’ll dump him somewhere he’ll die and not be found until it’s convenient.”

 

There it is again, the tiniest bit of uncertainty in her eyes and John seizes it.

 

“Do you honestly think Moriarty is going to send you off to live happily ever after in what, South America? You think he was ever going to let Glen Reese trot off. You don’t even know the man you’re working for-he doesn’t leave anything to chance. He’s got this all planned out to  the most minute detail, the only thing he didn’t plan was Glen Reese falling ill and you….acting like a decent human being and taking him to the hospital. This is our one chance to get a step ahead of him.”

 

Jane Hill pushes a lock of hair away from her eyes, “shut it.”

 

“I bet Cobb’s here to ensure everything goes according to plan, and then to clean it up.”

 

“You’re just trying to scare me.”

 

“I’m just-”

 

Suddenly the door bursts open. John rises quickly from the chair and Jane Hill leaps away from the wall, gun raised.

 

Cobb lumbers in; dripping water and dragging in mud and leaves. He takes one look at the room, and then slowly fishes his gun out of his holster and pulls back the safety trigger.

 

“What is going on?” his voice carries the evidence of at least two decades of smoking and reeks of sweat and musk, “why’s Doctor Watson not locked up?”

 

For a second, neither of them answers and Cobb moves his gun away from John to point it at Jane Hill.

 

“Well, I asked you a question.”

 

Jane Hill moves across the room to stand next to John, undoubtedly to use him as a human shield. He feels her erratic breathing against his cheek; a pearl of sweat is trickling down her forehead.

 

“Glen Reese is having some sort of seizure, I brought John out to help.”

 

That seems to get his interest, for Cobb twists around and narrows his eyes at  John.

 

“Is he ill?”

 

Cobb looks down at Glen Reese as if he’s just now noticing the unconscious guy by his feet.  A low, agonized moan seeps from the man and John has to restrain himself from moving to his aid. Instead he forces his eyes to remain on Cobb. Don’t let the enemy out of your sight.

 

“Yes, but I don’t know-”

 

“Doctor Fenway always said that when the Alpha dies, the Omega suffers. Interesting to see that it’s true,” his dark eyes glint with amusement.

 

John can’t bury his surprise fast enough to prevent it from reaching his face. This can’t be- Christ, hadn’t he just told Jane Hill that this was the one thing Moriarty hadn’t planned?

 

“What?” Glen Reese croaks. He jacks himself up in a sitting position.

 

Cobb snorts, “Adrian Reese was killed an hour or so ago. I am guessing that’s when the seizures started?”

 

In the resounding stillness, you could hear a pin drop.

 

“You… you… killed him?” Glen Reese’s voice is barely above a whisper.

 

“I didn’t,” Cobb shrugs, “but he’s dead as a doornail. You seem fairly well off though. I told him it’d be more interesting to test the theory the other way around, y’know,” Cobb moves his gun to Glen Reese, “kill the Omega, let the Alpha suffer.”

 

“Tested,” John sputters, “what theory?”

 

“You know, Doctor Watson, or haven’t you kept up with your reading since medical school?  Jacob said you were clever enough to figure it out.” Cobb says, his eyes glinting with mirth.

 

John’s suddenly aware that his heart is trying to claw its way out of his own throat. This isn’t just about humiliating Sherlock. This is far, far, worse.

 

John ducks aside to keep a straight face.

“But Jacob promised,” Glen Reese struggles up on his feet.

 

“That you were important, that you’d get your happily ever after with your Alpha? Listen, you worthless piece of Omega shit. I told you to do as you’re told, so shut the fuck up.”

 

Glen Reese’s mouth shuts with a snap that probably could have cut his tongue his two.

 

“Anyways, now that that’s settled, there’s really no use for you.”

 

John sees Glen Reese’s eyes widen in comprehension and a look of utter desperation floods his face.

 

Cobb makes a noncommittal noise, and then he moves his gun towards’ Glen Reese’s head. His finger smooth over the safety and then curls around the trigger.

 

John holds his breath. He waits.

 

And then several things happen at once.

 

“No!” Jane Hill screams and Cobb twists his attention away from Glen Reese to Jane Hill, who has her gun aimed at Cobb, finger trembling against the trigger.

 

She hesitates, and John knows that Cobb won’t.

 

He can see Cobb’s lips twist in an annoyed sneer, but just then, Glen Reese launches himself from the floor with the cry of a wounded animal. He barrels into Cobb, who doesn’t shift his balance fast enough and the two of them crash to the floor in a tangled mess of limbs. Cobb’s gun goes off with a deafening pop. Jane Hill curses and grasps her shoulder as blood blossoms between her fingers.  She stumbles backwards, dropping her gun to the ground.

 

 

John leaps forward, grabbing the gun as it skitters across the floor. He turns his momentum into a shoulder roll as he hits the ground, coming up with Jane Hill’s gun cocked and ready. Sweat trickles down into his eyes and he blinks it away to clear his vision.

 

Cobb and Glenn Reese are still on the ground.

It’s impossible to get a clear shot.

 

“I am not useless, I am not useless!” Glen Reese screeches, using his considerable weight to keep Cobb pinned to the ground, his nails raking across Cobb’s face, drawing blood. The man grunts, plants his face into Glen Reese’s face, but Glen Reese sinks his teeth into the flesh of his palm, and Cobb howls with pain.  With a vicious howl, he grabs Glen Reese by the scruff of his shirt and yanks him forward, crashing their heads together.

 

Blood gushes down the front of Glen Reese’s shirt, and the man stumbles backwards, dazed like a boxer who hasn’t heard the final bell ring.

 

“Enough of this nonsense,” Cobb growls.

 

And then Cobb trains his gun on Glen Reese again.

 

“Excuse me-”

 

Cobb narrows his eyes at John, and John squeezes the trigger, firm and slow. It’s a textbook shoot that plants the bullet squarely between Cobb’s eyes.  Glen Reese screams as blood sprays, and Christ, is that a tooth-

 

Cobbs’ legs buckle and then he keels forward, face first into the floor.

 

John exhales and then takes a deep breath, allowing his breathing to take control of the rush of adrenaline that’s coursing through his veins.

 

“Bloody hell,” Jane Hill curses.

 

In two strides John’s over by Cobb’s corpse, he takes the gun out of his limp fingers, discharges the clip and the bullet, and tucks it into his pants. Jane Hill’s gun he secures safely at the small of his back.

 

“Keep pressure on the wound,” John instructs, kneeling next to Glen Reese’s heaving form. Angry scratches mar his cheeks, his nose is crushed and bleeding badly and he’s spitting blood.

 

“Steady breaths,” he instructs, “in and out through your mouth. You’ll be alright.”

 

Glen Reese glares at John, his eyes brimming with tears and his mouth a red mess.

 

“My Alpha’s dead, nothing will ever be alright.”

 

He curls his arms around himself, folding himself together and sobbing in earnest. John swallows. He knows how to deal with blood and injuries, but he’s never mastered tears.

 

“A little help!” Jane Hill cries, thankfully drawing him away from Glen Reese.

 

Jane Hill is slouched in the corner, a hand against her shoulder and heavy streams of blood spilling through her fingers. Her breathing is erratic, but not more than what he’d expected from somebody who has just been shot.

 

“Stay still,” he says and then pushes her jacket away and unbuttons her shirt. Blood pulsates in a steady flow from the wound, but it looks clean.  The bullet hasn’t penetrated the shoulder which will minimize the blood loss.

 

John looks around the room for anything he can use to staunch the bleeding, and in the end he rips off the sleeve of Jane’s shirt. He folds it into a solid square and presses it against the wound. Jane Hill winces, but remains still.

 

“Is…is he dead?”

 

“Quite.”

 

John grabs Jane Hill’s jacket and is about to drape it over her shoulders.

 

“Wait,” she licks her lips, “your medicine, it’s in the right front pocket.”

 

John finds the bottle easily and pops a pill. He knows that relief won’t come for hours yet, but he still feels relieved to know that there will be soon be an end to his Heat. That Moriarty’s messed up plan won’t work after all.

 

“Do you have a phone?”

 

Jane Hill shakes her head, “Cobb was the only one who communicated with … I´ve only ever met Moriarty once, to get the police uniforms.”

 

He goes to Cobb’s corpse and pats his jacket and trousers until he recognizes the familiar form of a smart phone. The screen has cracked in the fall, and no matter how many times John pushes the power button, the phone stays dead.

 

 

“Well, we got here in a car…wherever here is,” John mutters. He moves to the desk and grabs the nearest carton of Chinese.

 

“Ipswich”

 

“We’re on an abandoned farm,” Jane Hill wheezes, “on Blood Hill road.”

 

“Is that some sort of joke?”

 

Jane Hill shrugs, and then groans in pain.

 

“Is there anybody else in on this?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“More guards or anything?”

 

Jane Hill shakes her head.

 

“Good, then I’m going for help.”

 

“Wait,” Jane Hill pushes herself up on her feet, swaying uneasily until John grabs her arm and steadies her.

 

“I don’t want to be alone with…” she swallows, and John wonders if she doesn’t want to be alone with Cobb’s corpse or the desperately weeping man.

 

“Right,” John carefully eases Jane Hill against the wall. He wipes the blood off his hands on his pants.

 

He combs his finger through his damp hair and closes his eyes for a second, and then with a deep, steadying breath, moves over to Glen Reese.

 

“Glen, we should get out of here.”

 

Glen Reese hiccups and turns to John, his face a wreck, eyes blotchy and a thick stream of snot and blood trickles down his chin.

 

“What for,” he gripes, “there’s nothing for me- just, just prison.”

 

His Adams apple works against his words, “do you know what happens to Omegas in prison?”

 

John goes instantly rigid.

 

“Look, Glen, I…know somebody in the British Government, all right. I’ll make sure that…that no matter what happens, you’ll be well looked after.”

 

The omega turns his bleary eyes on John, and John forces a smile he hopes is sincere.

 

“I don’t want your pity,” Glen’s  voice is clipped with anger.

 

“I’m not….pitying you.”

 

“You think I’m pathetic,” Glen Reese snarls, “I wish he had just killed me. I’d rather have died with you hating me, than you feeling sorry for me.”

 

John raises his hands in defence, stepping quickly back from Glen Reese.

 

“Fine, fine. Just…we’re getting out of here, do you want to stay with Cobb?”

 

Glen Reese glances at the growing pool of blood seeping from Cobb’s head, and blanches. He pushes himself up on unsteady legs, slapping John’s hands away when he reaches out to try and help him.

 

On the other side of the door is a concrete staircase, leading up to a slanted, metal hatch and John realizes they are actually in a modern air raid shelter.

 

The door is heavy and it takes both him and Glen Reese to push it open. When they step outside, John drinks the cool, crisp night air as if he was drowning. It’s raining and he turns his face to the sky, letting the rainfall wash away the smell of sweat, vomit and blood.

Jane Hill cringes against the cold, her shirt and uniform jacket smeared with blood and her hair standing in errant tufts going  every which way. Glen Reese tucks his hands under his armpits, sniveling and shivering, wiping away snot and blood with the back of his hand and stealing dark glances at John.

 

What a sorry sight they must be, John thinks.

 

“Where’s the car?”

 

“We parked near an abandoned barn on the other side of the field.”

 

John squints into the darkness, and can just about make out the vague shape of a large building.

 

“I guess we start walking.”

 

They trudge towards the field, his shoes soaked and muddy in seconds as they navigate across the barren field. They walk for a few minutes in silence and then the rain and the wind picks up, whipping against them, and John has to shout to be heard over the gale.

 

“Well, lets…”

 

Glen Reese goes rigid, his head twisting like a dog scenting the air. And John hears it too, the sound of vehicles coming their way. Not one, two…five….seven?

 

Instinctually they huddle together, and John slides a hand to the small of his back, wrapping around the hilt of his gun. It’s pitch black and with the heavy rain and a bitter wind, there’s not much he can do- crack shot or not.

 

Then a ribbon of blue lights appear that wind their  way down the road.

 

“Oh,” Glen Reese says, his shoulders sagging “the police.”

 

Jane Hill hisses something under her breath, but she too remains resigned next to John.

 

John relaxes his grip on the gun, and then, not knowing what to do with his hands, folds them at the small of his back as he falls easily into the pose of a soldier awaiting his next instructions.

 

It’s a bit comical, really. Here John is, having rescued his two captors and killed the third. That’s definitely something they’ll laugh about. Probably over Chinese.

 

A police car screeches to a half in front of them, spraying mud and rain on their pants and blinding them with the headlights.

 

Lestrade is the first one out of the car, and he staggers to a halt when he seesJane Hill, Glen Reese and John Watson, huddled together like wet ducklings.

 

They look like shit. Soaked to  the bone, covered in blood, their pants and shoes caked in mud. John looks weary, his hair plastered to his skull by the rain.

 

And then John, John is actually smiling.

 

“Lestrade,” he greets, as if they’re meeting in passing on a pleasant stroll in the middle of London.

 

Lestrade clears his throat, once, twice, before finding his words.

 

“John, are you unharmed?”

 

“Yes, but Jane Hill requires medical attention for a gunshot wound to the right shoulder, and Glen Reese needs to be examined for head trauma, he’s suffered several seizures-”

 

But whatever diagnosis and recommended treatment plan John had planned on conveying, it’s cut short when a dark figure shoves Glen Reese aside so forcefully that the man stumbles and crashes into the firm body of a police constable, who wastes no times escorting him to the back of a police vehicle.

 

Sherlock roams his hands over John, obviously searching for injuries, the source of blood.  His anxiousness is evident in everything but his touch, which is almost tender.

 

Then Sherlock is curling over John, his hand sliding across John’s cheek, his jaw, digging into his hair and securing him in place for the kiss that follows.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you wonderful people who have commented, reviewed and given me support and feedback. Thank you!
> 
> Especially thanks to my Beta, Albinofrog, and those kind people who dropped me a line on tumblr https://www.tumblr.com/blog/friolerofiction
> 
> I suppose I must warn that the UST gets resolved.

**Warning: sexual content (not explicit).**

 

“He told me he likes the game, that he enjoys planning it all out in meticulous detail. “People are predictable, they always think they are in control, they just don’t know how far the net extends.” 

 (Unpublished notes of Fenway, G. MD. Date unknown. )

**Chapter 15.**

 

Sherlock kisses him like…well, nobody has ever kissed him like this. Hot. Wet. Sherlock licks into his mouth, teases his palate until John’s eyes rolls back into his head. Sherlock’s hands cup his face and then slide down to grasp his shoulders, holding him in place while he curls over John’s body until there is not an inch of space between them, the tall body trembling against his.  And then, Sherlock pulls away, twisting his head until they are pressed cheek to cheek and John feels the coarse caress of Sherlock’s curls against his nose. He’s unable to keep from nuzzling up against him, but he is able to bite back the moan that shudders through him.

 

John stands there, hot and shaking and overwhelmed by sensory input.

The sound of Sherlock’s heartbeat fluttering against his chest, fast and skittish, like Sherlock is anxious and-Sherlock’s skin, the faint stubbles along his cheek because he’s been too occupied to shave, the roughness brought on by the cold weather.

 

His scent, nicotine, asphalt, stale London dust, grime, and sweat, the sharp sting of chemicals- formaldehyde, the sharp, wet wool from his ridiculous coat, the scratchy fabric of his scarf against his chin. Perfect.

 

And he feels the imprint of Sherlock’s long fingers against his shoulders, holding him hard enough to bruise and mark him.

 

The thought makes him dizzy with desire.

 

John bares his neck, the gesture a hardwired response in him. He wants Sherlock to mark him, to tell the world that they belong together, even though a part of him is hysterically screaming at him that Sherlock is just reacting to the scent of his shirt, soaked in Omega pheromones. This is what Glen Reese and Moriarty had planned, to force Sherlock to lose control.

 

To embarrass him.

 

John feels Sherlock tense, and for one terrifying heartbeat John wants to grasp hold of him and keep him from fleeing. Stupid words clog John’s throat,  stuff like _Stay, stay, stayIloveyoustaystay._ John swallows the words back towards his foolish heart, where they belong.

 

For a moment they are tethered, as though on a brink, and John feels the moment Sherlock lets go. Feels his hands skimming along his arms, the moist breath against his neck as Sherlock abruptly pulls away. John’s heart falls so hard, he is certain the entire Yard hears it.

 

He watches Sherlock’s taunt back as the detective marches off, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat and his expression hidden. He stops a few paces away and lifts his head, like a fox scenting the wind. Sherlock rolls his shoulders and a few seconds later John sees the faint glow from a cigarette and the smoke coiling along Sherlock’s arms.

 

 

DI Lestrade edges carefully towards John, ducking his head to hide a smile or grimace, John can’t really tell which.

 

“Let’s get out of this bloody rain,” DI Lestrade mutters, and gestures for John to follow him to a white canopy that somebody has erected.

 

“So….” DI Lestrade says, his grey eyes moving from Sherlock to John.

“Just….let´s get on with it,” John bites.

 

Without a word DI Lestrade fishes out a small, black notepad and a pen and John is immediately immensely grateful for DI Lestrade’s professionalism. John’s more than willing to discuss his time in captivity and the strange scene of their rescue- but he doesn’t want to talk about the possessive kiss he’s just shared with Sherlock.

 

He’s survived his first Heat in twenty years, he’s been held captive, he’s been shot at and he’s put a bullet between Cobb’s eyes. He’s not going to let one kiss from Sherlock Holmes bring him to pieces.

 

John folds his arms over his chest, clutches his elbows and anchors his myriad of emotions  in the painful feeling of his fingers digging into his arm. In the corner of his eye he sees several constables cordoning off the area leading to the air-raid shelter and people walking in and out, covered in plastic overalls and carrying sleek, metal, suitcases.

 

Jane Hill is led towards a waiting ambulance. She catches his gaze and lifts her good arm in  a mix between a salute and a wave. John returns it and sees a fleeting smile before she’s guided onto a gurney. Jane Hill who had let the allure of money get her into this mess, had ended up saving their lives. John feels an odd sense of gratitude towards his captor and reminds himself to try and ensure that she doesn’t become one of Moriarty’s loose ends.

“Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?” John can hear the uncertainty in DI Lestrade’s voice, so John forces a smile.

 

“I wouldn’t mind a shower and a change of clothes.”

 

“Sure, we’ll arrange that at the Yard as soon as we’ve resolved….”

 

DI Lestrade makes a sweeping gesture with his hand that John thinks is meant to communicate both John’s kidnapping, the shooting of Cobb and Doctor Fenway, and possibly even Sherlock Holmes.

 

“The dead man you’ll find inside…his name is Cobb. He was the one in communication with Moriarty, though Jane Hill and Glen Reese only seemed to know him as Jacob.”

 

DI Lestrade quirks a brow, “Cobb?”

 

“He’s the only one who had a cellphone, you’ll want to secure that.”

 

“How was he killed?”

 

“I shot him,” John says, “he was going to kill Glen Reese.”

 

John sees the myriad of reactions battling for dominance in DI Lestrade’s expression, but John’s incapable of feeling any remorse for the death of Cobb- even if he was their most solid lead to Moriarty.

 

“Hang on,” DI Lestrade says and strides off to speak with a constable.

 

John sighs, and glances over at Sherlock. He’s still standing at the edge of the crime scene, not…not moving, or shouting or anything.  The sight of a stationary Sherlock is so jarring that John suddenly feels guilty for being the cause of Sherlock’s emotional conflict. It doesn’t help that a rational voice in his mind keeps reminding him that John has no rational control of his biological reaction to the Alpha’s proximity- that John is still suffering from the lingering affects of his Heat.

 

A young constable presses a paper cup of tea into his hands, “you look cold,” he explains.

 

“Thanks,” John smiles, and lets the warmth of the cup seep into his fingers. He lifts the cup to his lips and inhales the scent of dark, spicy, tea.

 

“Bit of a mess,” the constable says, “heard you didn’t really need rescuing in the end. Well done.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The constable grins and pats John’s shoulder so hard John almost chokes on his tea, “turning the tide against three captors, that’s something.”

 

“Right,” John shrugs away from the hand that lingers on his shoulder. The constable takes a step back, only to round up on John. He smiles and John is forced to return it. Then the young man pushes off his hat and tucks it under the crook of his arm. He leans closer, and John finds himself tilting closer to hear his whispered words.

 

“I overheard forensic say that the bullet went-”

 

“Right,” John repeats, feeling his patience strain against the constable’s presence, “if you don’t mind, I need to find DI Lestrade.”

 

The young man leans closer, pressing up against John, his eyes closed as he breathes in John’s scent, “I can smell you.”

 

John falters, glancing up at the constable, sapphire blue eyes in a gaunt face, his sharp teeth visible as he grins.

 

Bloody hell.

Of all the time and places-.

 

-John wrenches himself away, despite his body telling him to seek the Alpha’s proximity. Beads of sweat trickle down the back of his neck and John tries to ignore the feeling of arousal that settles just below his stomach.

 

“I can help you with your situation,” the constable reaches out and wraps his fingers around John’s wrist.

 

Suddenly Sherlock is there, yanking the constable’s arm back with such brutal strength, John can hear the bones break. Sherlock´s face is ashen and his eyes are hard and flinty. His hand squeezes against the broken wrist, hard, and the constable yowls in pain.

 

“Shite,” the young man reels back, yanking his hand free and cradling the injured limb to his chest, “you broke my wrist, you bastard.”

 

“John is….” Sherlock places himself between John and the young constable, and John can see the effort it takes Sherlock to keep his voice steady in the curl of his fists.

 

“He’s not marked or anything,” the constable snarls.

 

“He’s-” Sherlock starts, and John thinks he can almost hear the unspoken “mine” at the end of the sentence. The detective places a hand on John’s shoulder and lets it slide down to the crock of his elbow and for one delirious moment John wonders if Sherlock’s about to lace his arm in his, as though John’s a helpless old lady. But his hand just rests there, heavy and possessive. The touch sends a foolish surge of joy through John with such force it wrenches his breath away. He tilts towards Sherlock.

 

“Until he’s claimed he’s free for-” The constable moves forward again, as if he’s going to make a grab for John, but Sherlock steps forward, barring his way.

 

“John is not for-”

 

“Alright!” John shouts, “I am standing. Right here.”

 

The two Alpha turns to sneer at him and the constable’s pupils narrow into slits, blinking slowly like a crocodile winking at you from just over the surface of the water.

 

“He’s feisty,” the young constable preens and John’s pretty sure Sherlock or he would have punched the smirk off his face if DI Lestrade hadn’t chosen that very moment to return.

 

“Sorry about that,” DI Lestrade says, falling silent once he sees the tense tableau of John, Sherlock and a constable, whose name he can’t recognize.   John looks vexed, in the way he does when he’s ignored and Sherlock seems to be testing the theory that looks can actually kill.

 

Christ, what wouldn’t he give for a crime scene to follow standard procedure?

 

The young constable  stiffens when he sees DI Lestrade- what division could he be from?

 

“Sir,” he throws a crisp salute and then strides off. Sherlock watches the man leave, with a look of deep condemnation.

 

DI Lestrade clears his throat; “you said Cobb had a phone on him?”

 

John nods, “a smartphone, the screen cracked when he fell, but-”

 

“Well, we can’t find it.”

 

John feels Sherlock go absolutely rigid.

 

“When it was obvious it wasn’t working, I left it in Cobb’s pocket- I…maybe Jane Hill or Glen Reese took it?”

 

DI Lestrade and Sherlock share a hooded look and John realizes that there’s something important they aren’t telling him.

 

“We should-” John starts, but Sherlock silences him with a look John knows all too well: I have a plan. John stifles the smile he feels tugging at the corner of his lips. Sherlock having a plan is all well and good, but this time John would rather be in the know than be among the unsuspecting audience.

 

“Look, Jane Hill and Glenn Reese might-”

 

John feels Sherlock’s firm grip on his arm, firm and dominating and the effect is jarring, he can’t do anything but comply with the Alpha.

 

“We should get you processed,” Sherlock says, and it’s the first words he’s spoken to John in days.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Down at the Yard, they collect his clothes and shoes for evidence, sealing them away in clear plastic bags. John pities the technician that has to work with his shirt, marinated in sweat, and mattered in blood and vomit.

 

Later, a pinch-faced crime scene technician scrapes under his fingernails and swabs his hands, face and hair for gunshot residue. They photograph the needle puncture mark on his neck, the cuts and bruises on his face and his wrists.

 

Afterwards he’s allowed the blissful relief of a shower, even if the water is only lukewarm and the pressure is poor. He stands there far longer than is warranted, letting the pressure of the shower beat away the tension in his shoulders and back.

 

He’s given a pair of grey-sweat pants, a t-shirt and a hoodie that makes him look ridiculously small and twice his age.

 

A female constable leads him, not to an interrogation room, but to DI Lestrade’s office, where a plate of sandwiches and more tea is waiting for him.

 

“The gov’n’and tha’ detective fellow will be with you soon,” the woman drawls, before closing the door.

 

John seizes a sandwich and devours it in five bites.

 

He eats the next one standing in front of the large map of London. There are a lot more pins in it this time, Ipswich is circled with a blue marker. He’s curious to know how Sherlock managed to locate them, what cunning clue had he picked up? Jane Hill had seemed to think that Sherlock wouldn’t find him until John peaked, and although John had been utterly mad with Heat and-

 

He stuffs the last thought far, far away and steers his thoughts to safer territory.

 

Where are Jane Hill and Glen Reese?

 

Glen Reese had been his captor and his patient, however briefly. John can’t really shake his concern, he’s utterly failed Glen Reese before- he doesn’t want it to happen again.  Glen had embarked on this madness, killing Doctor Fenway and kidnapping John to win his husband back, but-

 

-Adrian Reese had been killed, to test a theory.

 

What theory?

 

Cobb had indicated that John would know, but now that he has time to mentally go through his catalogue of medical knowledge, he cannot remember ever having read any theories on a broken Bond between an Alpha and an Omega. He hadn’t even recognized the symptoms when Glen Reese started to seize.

  


Moriarty had not gone to all this trouble last time he took John hostage. Framing John for Fenway’s murder and snatching him from the middle of the police custody cell was all….well, it was all very _clever._ Sherlock had probably thought it immensely fun to solve that particular puzzle. Even Glen Reese had seemed very pleased with how elaborate the plot had been, but John can’t shake the niggling feeling that he’s forgetting something.

 

Something somebody said or did.

 

Something important.

 

 _Christ_ , if he only had a bloody Mind Palace he could take a stroll through his own memory and figure it all out.

 

The door is pushed open and DI Lestrade walks in, carrying a cup of coffee and several bundles of documents. For the first time John realizes that he isn’t the only one who looks like shit. Lestrade’s got heavy bags under his eyes and the way his hand is sloshing the coffee around, makes John suspect that  caffeine and nicotine have been the only food groups DI Lestrade has absorbed  these past few days.

 

John nods, still watching the door, expecting Sherlock to follow the inspector.

 

But DI Lestrade is alone and John doesn’t want to voice his disappointment.

 

“You’re probably eager to get back home.”

 

“No more than you,” DI Lestrade huffs, “there are only a few matters we need covered now, the rest can be sorted tomorrow.”

 

John would give anything for the police procedure to be over with, so he could go back to Baker Street and…

 

…Do what exactly?

 

John is apprehensive of saying what needs to be said. He can’t actually put his thoughts and feelings into words, not even in the privacy of his own head.

 

And Sherlock?

 

He’s been doing a bang up job of ignoring John’s attraction to him and he’d seemed so….so upset with the kiss he initiated that John can all but imagine the epic sulk that he must suffer through before they return to status quo.

 

It takes him almost two hours to recount the events from when Jane Hill and the other bloke (Simon Whitwell) collected him from his prison cell and drugged him. He explains how he’d woken up in the concrete room with Glen Reese still unconscious.

 

He steels himself for the part when he has to tell DI Lestrade exactly why he had been kidnapped, and he is incredibly grateful that the DI Lestrade’s laptop screen hides his expression. John has to expound on the part where Glen Reese confessed to Doctor Fenway’s murder and how he met Jacob- Moriarty- online and agreed to let Moriarty concept this scheme so Glen Reese could get his revenge.

 

He’s hoarse by the time he has to account for Glen Reese’s seizures and the fight with Cobb. His vision swims in a hazy array of colors and for the first time, John allows himself to admit that he is utterly knackered. How long ago since Jane Hill gave him his Suppressants? How long since Glen Reese’s first seizure?

 

Five-six hours?

 

“How is Glen Reese?”

 

DI Lestrade looks up from his laptop, his eyebrows creeping towards his hairline.

 

“He’s confessed to his part in killing Doctor Fenway, but obviously there’s a bigger story behind it. Bloody Christ, this thing is complicated. He’s not in any shape to be questioned though, he was taken to Doctor Mizuno, who admitted him to hospital for further testing and observation. He’s under constant guard.”

 

“That’s good,” John says, not only glad to cleared for the suspicion of murder.

 

DI Lestrade’s attention returns to his computer screen before he asks, “and how are you, John? You’ve been through a lot.”

 

John gives a shaky laugh, wondering what DI Lestrade is referring to, being suspected for murder, drugged and kidnapped or kissed to within an inch of his life by Sherlock Holmes.

 

“I’m fine,” John lies, grateful that DI Lestrade does not possess Sherlock’s powers of observation, “just tired.”

 

“We haven’t been able to locate the phone or identify Cobb,” DI Lestrade says around a yawn.

 

“I’m certain I put the phone back in his pocket,” John mutters. How could the phone have vanished?

 

“I don’t know about you,” DI Lestrade says, rising with visible difficulty, “but I’m going home. We can take this up again tomorrow, say about noon.”

 

John nods, and before he’s taken stock of himself, he finds himself in the back of a taxi and on the doorsteps to 221 Baker Street. The rain has stopped and the morning sun has just started to paint the naked trees in that pale hue only the English sun can manage. There’s a bite to the wind that promises a cold day and chases John into the corridor to 221 Baker Street.

 

The seventeen steps up to his flat are  a struggle, and he trudges slowly up the stairs, careful to not alert Mrs. Hudson of his presence, he’s far too tired to deal with her inquisition.

 

He pauses on the final step, staring at the brass B against the black door. There’s a myriad of possibilities waiting inside his flat, and even if John knows which outcome he prefers, he’s not really certain he knows which one Sherlock would favor. Will Sherlock ignore the kiss, ignore that John was kidnapped and held hostage for two days because…because Moriarty knew that if John was in Heat, Sherlock would not be able to control his Alpha instinct?

 

Would he blame John for the kiss? Would he blame it all on John’s useless biology?

 

Judging by the way the kiss had sent Sherlock off kilter - he hadn’t even found the crime scene interesting- John could understand why he might need some time to catalogue his emotions. Or delete the experience from his Mind Palace.

 

The stairs end far before this churning vortex of emotions and thoughts does and as he nudges the door open John knows immediately that Sherlock isn’t at home.

 

He’s not sure if he’s feeling disappointed, relieved or concerned- but in the end he settles for feeling hungry and dead tired.

 

The flat looks as messy as usual; the only thing that’s carefully tucked away in its space is Sherlock’s violin. The fridge is empty and with a sinking heart, John realizes that he’ll need to go out and do the shopping if he wants something to eat.

 

His own room is a disaster zone.

 

The police have obviously not been kind with their search. His shirts, jumpers and trousers are tossed into a pile on the floor. The books from his bookshelf have been pulled, flipped through and discarded. The picture of John’s parents lies smashed on the floor.  By the wardrobe lies the shoebox he uses to hide his medals, his gun, and letters from the army. The box lies upturned on the floor and John is grateful that Sherlock had the foresight to remove the weapon.

 

With a weary sigh, John wades through the mess and grabs a fresh set of clothes and then goes to have a very long, very, warm, shower.

 

An hour later he´s back in his room, wondering if he´s hungry enough to actually bother with shopping, if he should tidy the mess in his room, or just collapse on the bed and deal with it later.

 

John scents Sherlock before he sees him.

 

The detective stands in the doorway to John’s room, looking rumpled and….

 

Christ.

 

John’s never seen evidence of Sherlock’s total confusion before. For a terrifying heartbeat he wonders if Sherlock is high and he lets his gaze search for evidence of clammy skin and blown pupils. But Sherlock looks, well, he doesn’t look like himself, but he doesn’t look ill. Not exactly, though John suspects that feeling confused might  be a novel experience for Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Everything alright, then?” John asks/ou don’t need to be the world’s only consulting detective to realize that something’s amiss.

 

The look on Sherlock’s face stops him cold, because he looks like no Sherlock Holmes that John knows, his confusion replaced by genuine sadness and worry. Even when John had been wrapped up in an explosive vest or with the laser of a sniper’s aim on him, Sherlock had never looked _worried._

 

And John just says the first thing that jumps  into his mind.

 

“How about some tea?”

“Sod the tea.”

 

Sherlock crossed the distance between them with two strides.

 

The kiss isn’t gentle.

 

Sherlock might never admit to being capable of emotions, but it’s certainly there, in the way his mouth meets John- desire, urgency, frustration crashing their mouths together. His hands move to John’s shoulders again, and John spares a fleeting second to marvel at how perfectly they fit under Sherlock’s broad hands. John’s not really sure what to do with his own hands, but settles for placing them carefully against the detective’s back, feeling Sherlock’s muscles jump at the contact.

 

John wants to tell Sherlock that it’s alright, “That it’s fine, I’m fine.” It’s not really true though and John knows that Sherlock is a genius and he’ll deduce that John is lying, like he deduces hundreds of big and small things about John every day.

 

So John figures he’ll say it in another way, he’ll say it in the way he presses his mouth against Sherlock’s, the way he licks his mouth open and slips his tongue next to Sherlock’s, lips soft and sweet.

 

“I’m fine.” John insists in the way he slides his hands down Sherlock’s sides until they reaches the top of his pants.

 

“I’m sorry” John says, scraping his lip against Sherlock’s lower lip, “I’m sorry I have feelings for you. I’m sorry I’m sorry I bring  this out in you-”

 

At first he worries that Sherlock can’t understand his apologies, his response is stiff, hesitant, like this is a language Sherlock doesn’t understand, but then he spindles his fingers down to John’s stomach and around to John’s hips and pulls him closer. Then Sherlock’s caresses grows needy and he puts a hand on John’s neck and he kisses John’s mouth. Hard. Soft. He drags his lips across John’s cheek and to his ear, saying between each new kiss, “it’s fine.”

 

"Sherlock, there is something you ought to know-" John tries, as Sherlock starts to unbutton his cardigan with his long, slender fingers. He can feel his heart beating erratically against his chest as Sherlock breathes warm, moist air against the wet patch he just licked against his neck. His fingertips brush the short hair at the nape of his neck, drawing them closer together.

 

"I know everything about you, John," Sherlock all but purrs.

 

The final button is popped free and he slides the cardigan off John’s shoulders as his mouth continues its sultry caress along his jaw to the spot just below his right ear. His breath hitches as Sherlock laps at his earlobe, his hands tightening on John’s shoulder, holding him still- as if any force on this planet, this _universe_ , could pull John away.

 

John fights a losing war with his head and feels his final qualms  die as Sherlock returns his lips to John’s and carefully prods his mouth with his tongue.

 

"Sher-Sher-" he pants embarrassingly, hating the whingy sound of his voice. Sherlock, however, seems encouraged by John’s response and presses his hips against John, his erection evident. It wrings another breathy moan from John.

 

They fall to John’s bed and move together like it’s the most natural thing in this world, like old lovers intimately familiar with the rhythm.

 

Later Sherlock falls asleep, his naked back to John, and John lies there, nose buried between his shoulder blades, listening to the burring candence of Sherlock´s breathing, dreading the questions, the conversations, the phone call, whatever it would be that would shatter this ephemeral peace.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcomed visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank for all your patience and encouragement and a thousand apologies for making you wait so long. I hit a bit of a rough path and had to make some decision regarding where this story is going.
> 
> I may do some nitpicking on this chapter later on, but I was so excited to post it, I couldn't wait.
> 
> As always, my gratitude to my wonderful Beta Albino Frog.

**Warning:** Liberal interpretation of Carl Jung, psychology and the English judicial system. Please disregard my total fibbing of all legal procedures. There is also some angst and smut in here.

 

An Alpha can break the Bond with no consequences to his own mental or physical health, while the Omega may suffer severe depression and anxiety (Fenway, M.D: 2000). It has been documented on several occasions that if the Alpha in a pair Bond dies, the Omega may suffer from seizures that can lead to coma and death. Little research has been done on the consequences on the Alpha if the Omega in the pair Bond dies. Some research, primarily conducted by Doctor Fenway, suggests that (Fenway, M.D: 2000) the Alpha will suffer severe mental deterioration.  There is no conclusive evidence to support this notion- as the circumstances are difficult to document.

  (Finkle., Alexander L. An Omega´s Guide 3. ed. A/O/ Press: 2010)

 

**Chapter 16.**

 

He studies the way John’s eyes twitch under his sleeping eyelids and wonders what events are replaying in John’s subconscious. The kidnapping? Has it brought forth the memory of Moriarty strapping him in an explosive vest? Is he back in Afghanistan?

 

He slides down until he can press his ear against John’s chest and hear the thrumming of his heart. The beats are slow and steady and Sherlock surmises that John’s in deepest stage of the sleep cycle. While he dreams, the body repairs and regrows damaged tissue, it builds muscles and bones, it strengthens the immune system.

 

Sherlock devours every inch of John with his eyes, the way his hair curls around his ears, the white blossom of a gunshot wound painted on his shoulder. He skims his fingers across the scar, and then yanks his hand back as though he’s been scolded.

 

This desire for physical intimacy is illogical.

 

He had experimented with and discarded that notion fully during his years at university. Sexual relationships are messy affairs and a waste of time. He knows what desire and sentiment does with people, how it distorted their reasoning, how it fuels them into foolish and reckless actions. He can’t waste time on it, if he wants to keep his mind clear and sharp. Sherlock made his profession on sorting through the remnants and ruins of human misery inspired by so-called love.

 

Love is a dangerous disadvantage- Irene Adler had proved that.

 

He’s never had the inclination to touch somebody just for the sake of touching them. But he wants to now. Desperately. He wants to curl into John’s warmth, tease him away awake with light caresses and kisses until John comes asunder below him.  

 

Suddenly the memory of last night sits like a stone in his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, shifts the memory away and focuses on the reasoning behind it, the logical steps that took him to John’s bed, tries to figure out where it all started.

 

John wet and ragged, standing next to the two people who kidnapped him. The kiss that sent want spreading in his chest. The constable wrapping his hand around John’s wrist. Saluting. He visits the memory of DI Dregs interrogating John and the vicious anger he’d felt when the detective inspector had pressed John up into the corner of the room. He needs to go further back and sorts through the memories of John corralled between Sherlock and the wall in the corridor, the John’s lingering looks at crime scenes, John blinking at him in Morse code, the soft curve of his elbow when he hands Sherlock a cup of tea, his beguiling nonchalance after he killed the cabbie and saved Sherlock’s life. The memories spin past his eyelids until he’s dizzy with the realization that he cannot tell when this attraction started.

 

Because he is attracted to John.

 

Which is only logical, after all John’s biology was designed to entice him- and all Alphas. It is an equation of hormones and pheromones that was at the core of their very cells.

 

Neurotransmitters gone wrong, a temporary chemical defect of dopamine, oxytocin and vasopressin.

 

However, it does not explain why he is beset with the memories of unraveling John, the feeling of his skin against his. He lifts his hand, lets the tip of his fingers carefully shape the curve of John’s jaw, along his cheek until they brush against the soft strands of his hair. He feels the pace of his own heart quicken.

 

Was that just another chemical reaction?

 

Individuals who believe they had fallen in love shows higher levels of cortisol. Maybe he should have Molly test him tomorrow?

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and skims through his knowledge on the topic. He walks through rooms and corridors until he finds himself at the library of Oxford University where he had taken a summer course in chemistry. He had been fourteen and fascinated with the study of psychology and psychodynamics- the study of the underlying forces that governed human behavior, emotions and reactions and how it relates to sub-conscious decisions. He had wanted to understand why people did such illogical things, like when Laura Fairfield cried because Sherlock told her she was too stupid and unattractive to warrant his attention.  He discovered that  it was a useful tool in anticipating conscious and unconscious responses to sounds, images and even colors.

 

For a full day he had been interested in Carl Jung and still remembers the musty smell from the well-worn book _Modern Man in Search of a Soul._

 

_“Love is a chemical process. The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”_

 

Sherlock can admit that John had changed him on levels he was not quite willing to investigate in depth. As for his own influence on John, the evidence had been obvious from the moment John forgot his cane at Angelo’s restaurant.

 

Was this the kind of transformation Carl Jung was talking about?

 

The question gnaws at him until he feels hollow with it. He forces the thought away, secures it in a little used room in his Memory Palace for later contemplation. he lights from the cars passing by sends tendrils of shadows sweeping over the walls. Sherlock’s eyes drift shut as he nuzzles behind John’s ear, breathing in his scent.

 

But his brilliant mind will not let him forget that there is something important- a clue, a sign, a gesture, something, that he has overlooked.

 

Next to him John sleeps on, oblivious to Sherlock’s trepidation.

 

John wakes to a rush of data overwhelming his senses and sending his mind awhirl. The smell of the bed sheets, sweet and tart with the slight hint of sex and sweat. The sharp bite of cold air against his cheek, the sound of the traffic on the street, telling him it is mid morning. The inexplicable silence of an empty flat.  

 

Has Sherlock fled to avoid the awkward morning after?

 

How is Sherlock going to act? Is he going to ignore it? He’s been doing a bang-up job of sweeping John’s infatuation under the carpet so far, is he going to do the same with sleeping with John?

 

Sherlock had initiated the first kiss.

 

Christ, had he just been reacting to John’s pheromones? Had the suppressants not taken their effect yet? Did he really fall for  that…that ridiculous plan after all?

 

He squeezes his eyes shuts and holds his breath long enough to quell the bile of emotions building in his throat. He throws the covers back and tips himself out of bed. There’s no sense in lying around thinking and…feeling about things that are entirely out of his control. He’ll not give them any room. There will be time (and probably a good helping of beer , or something stronger) to sort through it all later. Instead he lets the scolding hot water from the shower beat it all out of him until he’s almost dizzy.

 

He dresses, drags a comb through his hair and brushes his teeth. He descends the stairs and hears the quiet hum from Mrs. Hudson’s radio. The flat is the same as it was last evening. Books, papers, bullet holes. He doesn’t know why he expects it to be different- why he thought that anything would be different, as if one night with Sherlock would send his world off tilt.

 

He cannot help the small part of him that feels relief at Sherlock’s absence, because it will give him time to appropriately deal with his feelings for Sherlock Holmes and move forward.

 

Sometimes, John thinks, his sensibility is a particularly cruel gift.

 

John arrives at the Yard just past noon and the police station is a flurry of activity. Constables running this way and that, carrying stacks of files and folders and staring resolutely at the floor. Sergeant Sally Donovan is in the middle of the foyer, shouting orders and waving her arms as though she is directing traffic in the middle of Oxford Circus. He realizes that this isn’t the energetic and bustling activity of police constables working on a time sensitive case. Nobody is pausing to make small talk nor is anyone making eye contact. The smell of anxiety and fear is cloying the room.

 

“Doctor Watson,” Sergeant Donovan acknowledges with curt succinctness, “the guv’s waiting for you in his office.”

 

“Is something amiss?”

 

Sergeant Donovan arches a perfectly manicured brow at John.

 

“Internal reorganization, busted pipe in the archives,” she says in a tone of voice that tells John she’ll not answer any follow up questions.

 

John’s not convinced. A busted pipe would a nuisance true, but it wouldn’t make people look so bloody frightened. Who had ordered Sergeant Donovan to lie to him?

 

He makes his way to DI Lestrade’s office, determined to get some answers.

 

John thought DI Lestrade looked tired yesterday and wonders how it is possible he  looks worse today. The bags under his eyes have bags. He’s wearing the same crumpled suit as yesterday and he reeks of nicotine.

 

He still manages to dredge up a smile when he sees John.

 

“Good afternoon, John.”

 

“Good afternoon,” John replies, “I met Sergeant Donovan down in the lobby, she doesn’t seem very happy.”

 

“A pipe burst in one of our archives, everything has to be moved and sorted,” DI Lestrade says with a dismissive hand gesture, “and she was lucky enough to win the pleasure of organizing the move. Do you want a cup of tea?”

 

John frowns. He’s known DI Lestrade for some time now and the DI has never offered him tea.

 

“Sure,” he says, feeling suspicious.

 

DI Lestrade moves across the room, opens the door and grabs the arm of the first constable who walks by, “uniform?, bring us some tea and be quick about it.”

 

He turns to John and waves him into the chair opposite his desk. “Your statement is on the desk. Read through it and sign it, unless there’s something you’d like to add.”

 

John wanders over to DI Lestrade’s cluttered desk.

 

“Where is it?”

 

“Just-”

 

DI Lestrade sighs, pushes a pile of papers to one corner and collects a couple of clear-plastic evidence bags that he dumps into a cardboard box.

 

“Technically you aren’t suppose to see the evidence,” DI Lestrade starts, but pauses when he sees John examining the bag containing the bottle of vitamin B supplements.

 

“What´s this then?”

 

“We assumed it was yours or Glen Reese’s.”

 

“Right. Well. Where did you find it?”

 

DI Lestrade hesitates, “it was were recovered from the car that collected Glen Reese from the hospital. We suspect it was one of the cars used in your kidnapping.”

 

John twists the bottle around until he finds the familiar tear in the right hand corner of the label.

 

“They aren’t yours then?”

 

John presses his lips together into a thin line. If this was his medicine, why had Jane Hill said that Cobb had it- what had been in the bottle he took? .

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“No, everything’s fine. I can’t tell you who they belong to.”

 

“Here’s the statement,” DI Lestrade says with a slight frown that indicates that he knows John’s hiding something.

 

 _That makes two of us_ , John thinks.

 

The statement is concise and reads much like a military report. It starts with John being drugged at the Yard and then waking up in the concrete prison. It explains how John shot Cobb in defense of Glen Reese after Cobb had shot and wounded Jane Hill. John had been as sparse as possible with the details surrounding his conversation with Glen Reese. He can’t help but feel sympathetic for what Glen Reese did. He doesn’t want to think about what he might do if he thought he might lose Sherlock- a man he killed for

 

“It all seems in order,” John signs his name and slides the paper across the desk to DI Lestrade who slips it into a folder.

 

“Good. All charges against you for the suspicion of murder have, of course, been formally dropped. Glen Reese was charged with premeditated murder and false imprisonment with aggravating factors. Jane Hill and Simon Whitewall have both been charged with kidnapping and impersonating an officer. I believe the two of them are negotiating plea bargains.”

 

“Glen Reese isn’t?”

 

“I wish,” DI Lestrade mutters, “Alexander Lee Finkle has been with him since 7 am.” Lestrade drags a hand through his hair, his posture slumping. “She showed up with a lot of documents and legalities, saying that Glen Reese cannot be held accountable for actions made under mitigating factors and a diminished capacity.”

 

“Diminished capacity?”

 

“Hormonal imbalance. She say he was reacting to the potential loss of his mate and a whole lot of nonsense- can’t say I’ve ever heard of a legal precedence for it.”

 

“That nonsense,” a crisp voice scoffs, “is the juridical framework that makes up her Majesty’s Court and Tribunal Service.”

 

John turns. In the doorway stands a tall, slender woman with short, blonde, hair slicked back behind her ears. Alexander Lee Finkle is dressed in a pinstriped suit.

 

“Doctor Watson, I presume?” Alexander Lee Finkle extends a slim wrist with a massive gold watch. John hurries to his feet and accepts the offered hand in a firm handshake.

 

“I am Alexander Lee Finkle, Glen Reese’s defense attorney.” Ms. Finkle pulls her hand back and wipes it on a handkerchief. In the corner of his eye John sees DI Lestrade begging for patience from higher powers.

 

“I’m familiar with your work.”

 

“Of course,” she acknowledges. Lestrade barely has time to rescue his documents before Ms. Finkle slams her sleek briefcase onto the desk. “I am here for a copy of the preliminary evidence list.”

“Right,”  DI Lestrade shuffles through a couple of folders, before handing Ms. Finkle a folder. She secures it in her briefcase and then turns her full attention to John. Her thin smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I will also interview Doctor Watson. Is tomorrow at 2.pm suitable?”

 “I suppose, but-“ John starts.

“Wonderful,” Ms. Finkle says in the least enthusiastic way possible, “here is my card.”

John stuffs it into his pocket without looking at it. It’s going to be some time, it seems, before he can put this case behind him.

“I also have a court-order to release my client to serve his time until the trial in Home Detainment.”

 

“Now, wait here-“

 

“You will find that Doctor Mizuno strongly recommends that my client be allowed to return home- he is a widower, detective inspector, and the comforts of home will assuage his grief. Omegas who lose their Alphas in such a violent manner are-” Ms.Finkle hands DI Lestrade a document.

 

“Glen Reese is an admitted murderer and kidnapper, if you think I will let him-“

 

“His so-called confession was made under duress. I am confident it will be thrown away in court.”

 

“Now, hang on-“ the detective inspector tries, but Ms. Finkle is prepared for his protests.

 

“You will find that my client was provoked-”

 

“Provoked!” DI Lestrade growls, “that’s utter codswallop!”

 

John suspects that this might be the perfect time to take his leave.

 

Suddenly, the door to the office is shoved open.

 

“Doesn’t anybody knock!”  DI Lestrade laments.

 

Sherlock strolls into DI Lestrade’s office like he owns it, but it’s probably the fact that he’s carrying two steaming cups of tea that renders the detective inspector speechless.

 

Alexander Lee Finkle pulls herself to her full height. She’s almost a head taller than Sherlock, but still looks small standing next to the detective.

 

Sherlock places a cup in John’s hands, the tip of his fingers brushing against his knuckles. John quickly lifts his cup to hide the sheepish grin on his face. It was a tiny, fleeting gesture, but John knew well Sherlock’s thoughts on sentimentality. That he had given John even that barest of touches told John that Sherlock was acknowledging the change in their relationship. Sherlock hadn’t abandoned John to an empty bed

 

“There are several pieces of evidence that tells us this was not, as you claim, “a crime of passion.” Sherlock says and shoves DI Lestrade’s cup into the detective’s empty hands.

 

Ms. Finkle sneers, ”such as?”

 

“This was all very well planned. He had arranged for somebody to collect him from the hospital- he had even taken precautions for his pets.  He- “ Sherlock interrupts Alexander Lee Finkle before she can speak, “also admitted to planning this with “Jacob” for some time. Simon Whitewell said that Jane Hill contacted him three days before the kidnapping. Not to mention the elaborate ploy with the uniforms and the security cards, which required time to plan and prepare. Glen Reese had time and opportunity to reconsider his participation in capital crimes. Do these sound like the actions of an impulsive man? A man whose hormonal imbalance has left him bereft of his wits and reason? I do not think you shall find any jury that would agree with you.”

 

Ms. Finkle looks like she’s bitten into something vile but is far too polite to spit it out.  

 

“You yourself have in some of your most recent publications claimed, _“Omegas aren’t docile servants that only live to ensure the Alpha’s happiness”_. I am not certain how much of a credit to your vocation you will be when you turn your back on the very discourse you have built your tentative career on.”

 

The defense attorney puts on her best smile, but there is real venom behind it. She snaps her document case with a loud snap.

 

“Well,” she tuts, “we’ll see how much credence is given to a detective inspector who cannot distinguish between false and real police constables and lets his main suspect get kidnapped “Now listen here-”

 

“You will be held accountable for-”

 

“Bloody hell, this is your new strategy- to try and shift the blame over onto me?”

 

John glances at Sherlock who is already bored with the entire procedure and is casually flipping through John’s statement. John feels his throat go tight.

 

They haven’t talked about Glen Reese’s and Moriarty’s real motive for killing Doctor Fenway and kidnapping John. It’s a conversation John doesn’t even know how to have.  Moriarty has used John as leverage against Sherlock before, but then it had been about Sherlock’s intellect, a battle of minds. This time John was supposed to make Sherlock lose control of the Alpha he keeps tightly buried. If Sherlock had come upon John in the throes of his Heat, they would have Bonded. Sherlock would have been tied to him.

 

 

It’s been such a gradual process, falling in love with Sherlock Holmes, that John doesn’t notice how deep he’s sunk until he realizes that he _wants_ the Bond. He can’t imagine his life without the detective.  He wants to work cases with Sherlock, to serve him tea he won’t drink and come home to body parts in the fridge. He wants Sherlock to mark him as his in a way no rings or documents could ever do. John wants what Sherlock considers the greatest human fallacy.

 

He takes a sip of his tea and twists away before Sherlock is able to read everything in his eyes.

 

“This is boring and we’re done here,” Sherlock declares, startling John out of his thoughts.

 

“Yes, I suppose it’s all sorted for now,” DI Lestrade says and then he and Sherlock share a _look_ before they part with impeccable neatness.

 

Suddenly John remembers his earlier suspicions.

 

“What about-”

 

“I am hungry, John, let’s have lunch” Sherlock announces, and the sentiment is so novel that John doesn’t even recognize it’s a Sherlock Holmes Distraction Technique until they are sitting down in an Indian restaurant and Sherlock is chasing his curry chicken around on his plate with a fork.

 

John glares at his Tika-Masala as though it’s to blame.

 

“Well,” John pushes his plate away, “aren’t you going to tell me?”

 

Sherlock looks up, quickly schooling his features.

 

“How you figured it all out,” John beckons. Sherlock won’t let anything slip, but maybe John can get some new information and puzzle things together.

 

Sherlock’s features comes alight in a way it only does when John is asking Sherlock to demonstrate how he, (and he alone), figured it all out while the so-called professionals were floundering about.

 

And Sherlock explains.

 

His hands wave about as the salt and peppershakers take the role of the Yard. From listening to Sherlock’s account of the events, it seems like no great mystery at all and that everyone would be able spot the same car, but with different registration numbers, among the most sold vehicles in Britain.

 

John wonders how many hours of CCT footage Sherlock had watched. Nobody else would have been able to recognize the scratches on the bonnet. It’s amusing that Cobb’s hankering for Chinese exposed their hiding place.

 

They don’t talk about Moriarty, Glen Reese, or Doctor Fenway.

 

Back at Baker Street, John is set upon by Mrs. Hudson. She demands to know where he’s been and if he’s all right. Sherlock manages to slip away as John is dragged in for tea and cake. He spends forty minutes and two cups of tea trying to keep his face neutral while Mrs. Hudson unsubtly tries to discover the nature of John and Sherlock’s tiff, offers reassurances that couples do in fact, have disagreements and says that it’s only natural for John to seek some time for himself.

 

“You should never let the sun set upon an argument,” Mrs. Hudson coos over John’s second helping of sponge cake.

 

“Right,” John agrees, “only I was in fact, kidnapped.”

 

John’s reminded that Mrs. Hudson is British to the _core_ as she scoffs at his plight, “well, Sherlock sorted that out.”

 

He leaves with the promise of not making her worry again, and John rolls his eyes all seventeen steps up to his flat.

 

John’s just hung up his jacket when he feels warm fingers encircle his wrist and he glances up at Sherlock’s face. His eyes are fathomless, and the muscles in his jaw bunch and clench like he’s trying out words before he speaks them. omething shifts on his face and suddenly he’s kissing John.

 

It’s a gentle kiss, for all of about two heart beats before Sherlock nudges John backwards, walking him  into the living room, kissing and nipping at his lips, his hands curling over John’s shoulders. John falls easily into the rhythm, kissing back daringly, pressing his mouth fiercely against Sherlock’s and grabbing hold of the lapels of his jacket.

 

Somehow they make their way up the stairs, only stopping to  breathe, but they never stop touching. Sherlock has him corralled against the wall, his face pressed into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. His fingers make short progress of the button on John’s cardigan and soon it’s dropped to the floor and John demands Sherlock’s jacket joins it.

 

Sherlock presses against him and it takes all of John’s willpower not to rut against Sherlock’s thigh. A few more kisses, hard and wet and then Sherlock is maneuvering them again, steering John towards his bedroom.

 

“Do you want to-” John gasps.

 

He feels crazy with daring. He invaded Afghanistan after all. He presses his mouth to Sherlock’s, licks into the seam of his lips and savors the taste of Sherlock’s palette. He feels the tension riding along Sherlock’s body and for a terrifying moment he worries that he will push him away. But the detective arches in to meet him, his mouth demanding against John’s and his fingertips trails insistently along John’s side to the hem of his trousers, dipping below the waistband.  

 

John’s already hard and aching and surges forward, molding his body to Sherlock’s where he can  feel the rigid form of Sherlock’s erection against his stomach. John slides his hands up along Sherlock’s arm until he can push away the shirt and expose the jut of his shoulder and the slope of his neck so he can  mouth his way down Sherlock’s jaw.

 

Sherlock kisses the dip of his throat, grazes the jut of his collar bone with his teeth and John feels scorching heat as Sherlock’s breath ghosts along his skin to the pale expanse of his neck.

 

“Do you want to-” John asks again, arching his neck, exposing the  rapid pulse beating against his skin. It’s a submissive gesture and John feels the sharp intake of breath before Sherlock growls, “no.”

 

And then he leans over to capture John’s lips in a searing kiss.  John wonders if the kiss is meant to be apology and he feels his heart hammer frantically against his chest. Maybe this is all Sherlock is willing to give him, is able to give him. But he will take it, take all that is offered, and carve a piece of this in his memory- somewhere deep and dark where not even Sherlock has access to it. He presses up, up and into the kiss, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and locking him in place so he can  hold the kiss until they must part for air.

 

Their movements are raw and desperate. Hands touching everywhere, there’s the sound of fabric tearing as John claws at Sherlock’s shirt and there’s a mad scramble as John pushes himself up on his elbows to take off his trousers at the same time as Sherlock tries to yank his undershirt over his head. John’s pants and boxers end up somewhere around his knees but he doesn’t have time to care about the lack of ceremony because Sherlock’s mouth is on his again, his teeth grazing against John’s raw bottom lip.

 

He rises again and again, like rolling waves to kiss Sherlock, his mouth wide and open against his, breathing, sharing the same air. Sherlock’s fingernails leaves white lines against his skin and they move against each other, arrhythmic and jarring.

 

“I want…“ John pleads, not even really sure what he’s agreeing to since Sherlock hasn’t asked him a single question. He feels Sherlock’s fingers dig into his skin, hard, firm enough to bruise and John clings back, possessive and savage, tearing his own marks on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock doesn’t want to Bond with him, but John will make his own proof of claim.

 

“I want-” John growls, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, forcing the detective to meet his gaze. His eyes are blown wide with arousal, fathomless and John can’t remember seeing anything as magnificent.

 

“Not that,” he says, stilling Sherlock’s protest against bonding, “but everything else, again.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he searches John’s face. John wonder what emotions he finds hidden there. Desire. Desperation. Love.

 

John feels Sherlock’s weight settle over him, Sherlock’s firm possessive hands on his hips and the feeling of want burning in his gut as he buckles up against him.

 

Later, Sherlock sleeps and John lies wide awake, staring up at the ceiling, feeling raw and hollow. John loves him and it was supposed to have felt like that- there was supposed to be passion and tenderness. John’s throat feels tight and he bites away something between a sob and a sigh.

 

It had felt like goodbye.

 

Sherlock’s got a leg possessively over John’s. His fingers are curled against John’s shoulder. John shifts onto his side. He brings their foreheads together and then pulls back just for a second before kissing Sherlock’s curls. The detective doesn’t stir and John laces his fingers carefully with Sherlock’s, smooth them out until they lie palm to palm. Yet the space between them is a chasm.

 

He drifts off into an exhausted dream. He feels like he’s only been asleep for a few minutes when someone shakes him awake.

 

“What?” He croaks, his voice heavy and thick with sleep.

 

“John. The salute, John.”

 

John’s far too exhausted to make any sense of what Sherlock is saying.

 

“Police constables don’t salute, John. That’s a military thing.”

 

John wipes grit away from his eyes. He glances at the red numbers on the alarm clock. It’s a little over five am.  

 

“Bloody hell, it’s far too early for this-”

 

“Focus, John. The saluting constable.”

 

“What?”

 

“I know how to find him, the imposter who probably took Cobb’s phone. All Alphas are in that foolish registry and it’s going to take us one step closer and-”

 

John jolts awake and slaps a hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

 

There’ s the sound of two people moving below, the clutter of kitchenware, and the faint drift of sizzling bacon, tea and something more potent. A voice murmurs something. He recognizes it instantly, even though it has been months since he first became aware of it.

 

And then-

 

-the scent roots him to the spot and something inside him curdles.

 

Alpha.

 

“Quiet,” he hisses.

 

Sherlock frowns and John lets his hand slip away.

 

“They are here.”

 

John locks his fingers into the bed sheets to keep himself from reaching out and touching Sherlock, to keep him still.

 

“Who?”

 

“Moriarty,” John says, “and he’s not alone,” a heartbeat, “ and I think he’s making breakfast.”

  
  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter  17.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is the unbeated version and that it will eventually be replaced by a proof-read text, I just don´t want to keep you guys waiting any longer. See the end for spoilers.
> 
> As always, my most heartfelt thanks to all your love and support that has brought us this far.

Disclaimer: Contains dialog from BBC Sherlock Reichenbach Fall and the Great Game and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle´s The Final Problem and The Crooked Man.

Warning: canon compliant violence and incorrect use of medical terms.

 

 

 

**Chapter 17.**

 

 

John insists that they both dress properly. It’s one thing to visit Buckingham Palace wrapped in nothing but a bedsheet, but for your arch nemesis proper trousers and shirts are required. John buttons his cardigan and tucks his phone away in his pocket, but he still feels naked.

 

“My gun?”

 

“With Mycroft, I fear,” Sherlock replies as the pale expanse of his neck disappears behind the fabric of his dark, blue shirt. “There is no need to worry, he’s obviously not here to kill us.”

 

“Right,” John replies, his voice tight. He doesn't need to be reminded that Moriarty isn’t the type to kill you in your sleep. After all, that’s not very interesting- and, above all else, things have to be interesting.

 

John closes his eyes for a second. He can still hear Moriarty and his henchman move around downstairs, the sound of the kettle, cutlery, and plates. He can still smell the heavy scent of an Alpha.

 

“Well,” Sherlock says with unbearable nonchalance, “let’s get this started, hm?”

 

There’s something like a bounce in Sherlock’s steps as he walks down the corridor and towards the stairs. He’s eager and curious. Excited. John wishes, not for the first time, that Sherlock would leave some room for caution all that curiousness.

 

 

 

 

Moriarty has made himself at home in their living room. He’s sitting at the table that doubles as Sherlock’s desk, idling browsing the headlines of an online newspaper on Sherlock’s laptop. When he sees the two of them, his face creases into a smile that seems eerily fond and genuine, yet sends a shiver down John´s spine.

 

“Good morning,” Moriarty says brightly, “tea?”

He extends a cup to Sherlock with one hand, in the other he holds a 92FS Beretta. Sherlock accepts the cup and takes a seat on the sofa. He takes a sip and then lifts the cup as if he’s toasting Moriarty’s superior tea-brewing skills.

John presses his lips together to a thin line, feeling anger curling his fists. He doesn’t know how to play this game Sherlock and Moriarty are embroiled in. He doesn't want to play it.

 

“You’ve already met my other half, the real Jacob.” Moriarty inclines his head towards the man standing in the kitchen doorway. He hasn't done much to change his appearance since he saluted DI Lestrade. His jaw is dusted with stubbles and he’s dressed in gray BDUs and a military green polo shirt, making him look more like his proper age. Mercenary, John thinks. Jacob´s upper lip curls back, revealing a row of gleaming teeth.

 

And then, several things fall into place at once.

John can’t hide his surprise fast enough to keep it from reaching his face and Moriarty catches his gaze and winks. He swivels the gun towards John, “come now, Johnny, be a good lad and take a seat. There´s a cup of tea for you as well.”

 

“I’d rather stand,” John replies. Sitting down would make them both vulnerable and somebody needs to take this seriously.

 

“Now, now,” Moriarty chides with a mean grin.

 

“Sit, John.” Sherlocks’ eyes are hard and flinty, “now.” John suddenly feels like a dog that’s been called to heel, but he can’t suppress his instinct to please the Alpha. Scowling, he lowers himself to the edge of the sofa, never taking his eyes off the barrel trained on him.

 

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Moriarty says with all the pleasantness of a vulture that’s just discovered a zebra with four broken legs, “I feel like we’re long overdue a chat.”

 

It’s the most absurd tableau ever, Sherlock hiding his expression behind the rim of his teacup, John glowing at his and Moriarty grinning like a cat.

 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, trying to catch the detective’s attention, but Sherlock seems to be contemplating the contents of his teacup. Well, no, John amends. Sherlock always appears to be doing something innocent when his mind is involved in complex and clever. He wonders how much of what Sherlock does is just window dressing. What is an act for Moriarty and what is an act for John?

What he’d give for Sherlock to share his insight and his plans for once, instead of just springing it on him.

 

For several long minutes, the only sound in the room is the odd tinkle of china. Below, John hears Mrs. Hudson turn on the radio.

“Sherlock, he’s not-” John tries again. Sherlock allows a single breath to declare his disinterest before he resumed that austere posture which had made so many, even John himself, accuse of him of being a machine rather than a man.

John frowns. This is ridiculous, what is Sherlock playing at? Is he trying to protect John in some way- doesn’t he realize that John neither needs or wants his protection?

 

Sod it, time to get this over and done with.

 

John nods his head at the Alpha standing behind Moriarty, ”that’s what Cobb meant by the experiment- why you killed Adrian Reese.”

 

Moriarty arches a brow at him, “of course,” he says giving John his tenues approval.

 

For a second, John thinks he sees Sherlock’s glacial calm crack and something cold and tight grips his chest. Maybe Sherlock doesn’t have it all figured out.  What if Moriarty has managed to move a few a steps ahead of him and Sherlock’s mind is racing to catch up? His belly rolls. If he hadn’t kept things from Sherlock- if he had only told him everything that went on in the room with Glen Reese, about Cobb’s taunts and his own theories, Sherlock wouldn't be sitting here trying to play catch up with the world’s only consulting criminal.

 

John regards the detective, his stoic posture, the curl of his long fingers around the teacup. He’s not nervous, but there’s something in the air, like the quiver you feel before you dive off a cliff without knowing the waters below you.

 

“Society’s always thought of us as meek and powerless,” Moriarty laments distantly, dragging John out of his musings. “It’s been a very convenient myth, don´t you agree, Johnny boy? Nobody will look at your twice, they will lower their guard and let slip so many secrets.”

John gathers the thread of his temper, but his mouth still feels like it´s made of cotton when he speaks.

 

“When I was….when I went to see Doctor Fenway, I thought he was talking about an Alpha, but he was talking about you. He was trying to warn me…..” Realization is slow and painful, “there were never people paying money for the research, that was you.”

 

“Well,” Moriarty allows, “not for the research you’re thinking about. That nonsense about the book, was just to rattle your feathers, force you out of hiding. A bit of fun, really.”

 

“Just like-”

 

“Be quiet, John,” Sherlock’s voice is low and tight and John immediately swallows the rest of his words. Moriarty arches a brow at the two of them, his mouth twisting into a grin.

 

Sherlock finishes his tea and places the cup on the saucer on the table with such force the cup rattles on the tiny plate.  Moriarty hands his cup off to the Alpha.

 

“I think John here, should join my friend downstairs and bring some breakfast to your kind landlady.”

 

“No,” John says.

 

He won’t leave Sherlock and he certainly won’t bring one of Moriarty’s murderous pals down to Mrs. Hudson.

 

“It’s not really a suggestion,” Moriarty says, his gun swinging from Sherlock to John, as if he’s deciding on who to keep hostage to get the other to comply.

 

John feels his defiance rising. What is Moriarty playing at, is he sending John away so that he can make Sherlock agree to some ridiculous game?

 

“Go. John.Now” Sherlock says, his voice clipped with anger and the slight command curls along John’s spine until he’s standing.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

The detective refuses to meet his gaze. John dares a glance at Moriarty. His dark orbs are fixed on the private detective, his mouth quirked into a crooked almost smile. John realizes that there’s a second conversation going on, between Sherlock and him. A conversation that John is not privy to- one that Sherlock does not intend to partake in.

 

“Sherlock….” John tries again, but Sherlock’s eyes holds at Moriarty.

 

John feels the barrel of Jacob’s gun press into his back, nudging him towards the kitchen, “grab the plate, and let’s go, sweetheart.”

 

He presses his lips together to a thin line and lets the Alpha direct him towards the kitchen where he picks up a warm plate. John turns in the doorway, one foolish, futile last look at Sherlock as the Alpha herds him down the stairs.

He tries to ignore the twisting thing in his heart.

 

 

The door closes with a small snick and Sherlock and Moriarty are alone in the room.

 

“Well,” Moriarty says, “with John’s help, you’ve surely figured it out. If not, I’m going to be disappointed.”

 

Moriarty folds his hands on his knee and Sherlock recognizes the gesture what it really is, an attempt to appear relaxed, but the slight whiteness along the knuckle curled around the trigger betrays him.

The games begin and Sherlock’s mind is awhirl, flickering through each possibility. Is Moriarty trying to appear relaxed, knowing that Sherlock will see through it?  If that is the case, why the ruse? Why the gun? In their previous encounters Moriarty has never been one to dirty his own hands. Does this mean that truly feels uncertain?

 

For his plan to work, it is necessary that Moriarty feels completely in control.

 

“Of course,” Sherlock replies slowly, and watches the slight twitch at the corner of Moriarty’s smile.

 

“Well, go on then,” Moriarty says with the flick of his wrist, “tell me.”

 

“You want me to tell you what you already know.”

 

“No,” Moriarty replies, “I want you to prove to me that you know it.”

 

Sherlock lets himself fall back against the couch and mirror’s Moriarty’s pose: legs and arms crossed.

 

“You had Adrian Reese killed because you wanted to ensure the theory worked in practice. You Bonded with this one, because you needed someone with a low profile who had access to the Yard. You’re making sure you’ve got all your bases covered for when you plan to dispose of him.”

 

“Good. Well, that is not all, but, go on….”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, it is all he needs to put everything into order.  His plan depends on Moriarty believing that his scheme has succeeded, that he believes that he has acquired a powerful leverage in John.

 

If he can’t use John against Sherlock, he’ll kill him.

 

“You’ve been playing this game for a long time. Ever since you realized what you were, what advantage you had over certain….aspects of the population, you have been testing the limits of your influence, how powerful a hold you have over them.”

 

Moriarty tisks, “still can’t call us by the proper name. Is it fear or shame? Oh, don’t answer, I’ll work it out. Continue.”

 

“A deadly game of “Simon Says.” You got them to murder for you, complete strangers, harmless individuals. Homeless men, destitute women- but the teenagers, two of them- that was particularly sadistic. Personal. Some slight at your person, no? They bullied you at school. Kids can be so cruel.”

 

“I just liked watching them all competing for me,” Morality admits.

 

“Not just those witless Alphas you had under your sway,” Sherlock adds, steepling his fingertips together. Might as well take the plunge,”Doctor Fenway too.”

 

“He was just so -eager- to learn…everything. It was a dwindling field even back then, you know. A couple of academics throwing theories back and forth like an ancient game of tennis. I was a fresh breeze- no, a storm! What if we turn it around, what if we ask how far will the Alpha go for the Omega? What if we’re not the dull, hapless creatures beholden to the Alpha’s command? What can the Omega manipulate an Alpha to do with a few sweet promises? Georgie, now, he wanted hands-on-empiric evidence to relaunch his career.”

 

“You pit Alphas against each other, against other people” Sherlock keeps his voice neutral, though his mind is reeling with the implications. How many violent deaths had Moriarty and Doctor Fenway orchestrated? How many people had Moriarty manipulated to do his bidding? Alphas sought dangerous and powerful positions, the military, police, dominating the financial circle.

 

How many does he still have under control?

 

“When they announced the register, it got so much easier to locate them,” says with a wicked smile.

 

“It’s how you built your consulting criminal career. You have other Omegas in your network,” Sherlock adds.

 

“ We like to think Omegas are rare, but that is mostly because they are invisible- which is how we prefer it” Moriarty leans back in his chair, “ People don’t think about us, at all. You can't even use the designation on your house pet.”

Sherlock ignores the bard.

“If one did not comply, you would simply threaten their partner.”

 

“It used to be so funny. This bond, this yearning, this desperation that nature has chained us with, it will make you weak if you do not know how to steer it to your advantage. I was growing bored with the games- these Alphas and Omegas, in the end they are just as ordinary and as boring, just as predictable, as everybody else. But,” Moriarty’s lips curls into a vicious sneer, “not you.”

 

Sherlock puts on his best frown.

 

“This is about you and me. I thought we could have fun with our game. Trying to figure each other out, trying to see who would be the cleverest.” Moriarty shifts his position, the hand holding the gun rising towards Sherlock’s chest. “I didn’t really think you’d fall for this scheme…” he waves his other hand towards the doorway in a way that is probably meant to convey John Watson.

 

“I thought it’d be interesting to see if you could actually be maneuvered to Bond with this precious creature you keep around.  I said to myself, that you’d see through my ruse, isolate yourself. But then I realized that you actually like having him around, people can be so ridiculous sentimental about their pets.”

 

Sherlock lets a flick of his eye conveys his concern and then he quickly schools his features.

 

“That wasn’t really your plan.”

 

“True,” his face curls to a mockery of a smile, “it’s all about layers, isn’t it?”

 

Or a web, Sherlock thinks, but how far does your criminal web extend? Who is on the other end of your strings? How do you intend to make me dance? What are you trying to distract me from this time? He feels the familiar thrill of his heart in his chest, the rush of adrenaline- he is confident, yes, but he’s not certain and that, that is what makes this interesting.

 

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” Sherlock concedes.

 

“Hmm,” Moriarty leans back in his chair again, “the thing is, this,” Moriarty gestures with his gun between them. “It would be fine, if it was just about us. But you don’t stand in the way of merely an individual, you stand in the way of an entire organization, the full extent of which- even you with all your cleverness, will never be able to realize. Either you must be brought to rank or be pushed aside.”

 

Moriarty rises slowly from his chair, keeping his gun leveled at Sherlock’s chest, right at his heart. Sherlock pushes himself carefully up from the sofa, his gaze flitting from the finger around the trigger and Moriarty’s pale, narrow, eyes.

 

The finger twitches, teasing the trigger.

 

“Killing you’d be so boring,” Moriarty says, sounding, for all the world, like he was disappointed.

 

“You’ll find I’m not easily manipulated,” Sherlock replies.

 

“Is that so? Yes. You claimed you don’t have a heart. You may even be able to delude yourself into thinking that you won’t care if I paint the walls with John Watson’s brain, or put your land lady’s head on a pike or spread the remains of your Gregory Lestrade all over the Thames.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

 

“Maybe it’s true! Maybe you do not care about any of that- but you do care about your intellect. It is what makes you special. Do you know what would happen if I take away your little Bonded pet? I do. I’ve done the experiments. Neurological decline. How would you handle being normal and stupid? Now -that- would be interesting.”

 

“What is it you want?”

 

“Your brother,” Moriarty inches towards the window and makes a show of lifting the curtains and peering down at the street “who, I imagine, is just around the corner, has something I require.” Moriarty turns his attention back to Sherlock. “I want the files on his laptop.”

 

“Which ones?”

 

“All of them, of course. You have until, oh, shall we be dramatic and says noon? That should give you six hours. I’ll text you the details.”

 

Moriarty turns and saunters away from the window. He tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants, he stops at the mirror in the corridor and smooths back a few errant locks of hair. He pauses at the doorway, as if he’s just realized he'd forgotten something, then, with a shrug he proceeds down the stairs.

 

Sherlock waits a second before he follows. Moriarty is already pulling open the door to with the polished A- on it. He steps inside, Sherlock follows him.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, John.”

 

Sherlock peers over Moriarty’s shoulder and sees the two of them sitting at Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table, looking grim and determined. Mrs. Hudson is wearing her dressing gown, but somehow the fluffy, blue, flower pattern just makes her look more cross.There’s an untouched plate of food and two steaming cups of tea on the table. Moriarty’s Alpha is standing at a lazy attention in the corner, though Sherlock doesn't doubt he´s able to draw his gun in an heartbeat.

 

The scene shifts as soon as Sherlock enters, John rises moving so that he’s standing just in front of Mrs. Hudson and Jacob slides over to Moriarty.

 

“There you are, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says as though Sherlock’s late for tea and they aren’t in the middle of a hostage situation.

 

Sherlock catches John eyes, sees them go hard and flinty, sees him square his shoulder, his left hand curling as though it doesn't really realize that it’s not holding a weapon. John twists his mouth the way he does when he’s trying to pick and chose his words carefully.

 

“I trust you had a lovely time?” Moriarty says with a sarcastic lilt in his voice.

 

“Wonderful,” John takes steps forward, but the Alpha’s gun is suddenly on him.

 

“Now,” Moriarty says, “I’m sure we’d all love to stay and talk about all this, but I figured I’d just show you how serious I am.”

 

It happens in an instant.

 

There’s a soft pop.

Mrs. Hudson glances down at her torso where a dark spot has marred her blue dressing gown. A heartbeat later and a large, red spot blossoms across her chest.

 

“Oh, dear.”

 

She tries to stand, but her legs gives away and John rushes forward to catch her before she hits her head on the table. He eases her out of the chair and to the floor.

 

“Mrs. Hudson!”

He shrugs out of his cardigan, and stuffs it under her head and neck. Sherlock sees her large, dark eyes, stare up at John, her hand fumbling as though she’s reaching out for him.  He yanks open the dressing gown, and peels away her shirt. Dark, thick, blood pumps in a steady stream from a tiny hole. John grabs a tea towel from the table and presses it against the dark wound, trying to staunch the pumping blood.

 

“Stay with me,” John murmurs, fishing his phone out of his pocket. His fingers are already slick with blood and the skid across the screen, it takes him several precious seconds to reach the emergency services.

 

“Mrs. Hudson?”

 

Her eyes blink shut. She takes a deep, staggering breath and John calls her name again. She doesn't respond and John knows it’s a bad sign. Respiratory distress, due to pain or flail chest, or damaged lung, or all of them above. Mrs. Hudson has always seems so strong and resilient, but her body’s old and not as tough as her mind.

 

“Sherlock, I need-” he glances up, Moriarty and Jacob are gone, but Sherlock is just…standing there, his brows slightly furrowed, his sightless gaze locked on Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Sherlock, I need some help,” John says tersely.

 

Sherlock’s head snaps up, like a dog scenting the wind.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Shut up, I’m busy. Thinking.”

 

For a moment John’s torn between insult and hilarity, before he settles on deep-seething anger.

 

“Thinking!” John snarls, “She’s dying, your…play pal had her shot! She´s dying and it´s, it´s our fault- doesn't that mean anything to you?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes settles on John, cold and calculating and not for the first time, John sees the scintillating glimmer of an Alpha in their reflection.

 

“There’s no time for this,” he says, as though Mrs. Hudson has somehow inconvenienced him by getting herself shot.

 

“Sherlock, she’s dying because-”

 

“Don’t you think I know why she’s been shot!” Sherlock tells John, quiet, harsh and grim. “Be quiet,  your mindless mewling is distracting.”

 

“Sod this,” John growls,  “you…go do your thinking!”

 

Sherlock turns on his heel and strides out off the room. John hears him ascend the stairs, two at a time, he hears him move around in the flat above and then he’s rushing down the stairs again. The door slams shut and then John is alone.

 

The emergency services arrives seconds later. The ambulance personnel fall to their knees at Mrs. Hudson´s side, as John rattles off what he knows about the patient. Which isn´t enough. They are quick and efficient. An oxygen mask is secured around her head, bandages secures the wound.

 

John steps aside as a stretcher is carried in and wishes he could be surprised to see Mycroft arriving behind, his grip tight on the handle of his umbrella as he survives the scene. He’s trying to look impassive, though John recognizes the worry in his hooded look, he’d seen it in Sherlock when John had been wrapped in a semtex vest.

 

“You’d best locate your brother,” John says, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

 

“So far, he is successful in evading my attempts,” Mycroft murmurs.

 

“Why didn’t you arrive sooner, I thought you had the flat under surveillance.”

 

“Sherlock disabled it before the police came to search your premises.”

 

“He’s out there now. Moriarty has undoubtedly forced him into some game- he wouldn’t tell me anything. You have to find him.”

 

Mycroft frowns, but before he can respond, an ambulance technician calls across the room, “we need to head out, are either of you coming with us?”

 

“I will,” John says, pushing past Mycroft. She looks tiny and frail, bundled in blankets and secured to the stretcher. Christ. John´s not sure if he'll ever be able to forgive himself or Sherlock if Mrs. Hudson doesn't pull through.

 

He crawls into the back of the ambulance, the siren blares and the vehicle pulls into the early London traffic. John finds Mrs. Hudson’s hand, the cartilage in her hand dark against her pale skin.

 

Sherlock is out there, somewhere, playing Moriarty’s game, without John. Sherlock may not need him, but Mrs. Hudson will.

 

A bullet can be traveling up to a 1,500 meters pr. second upon impact. The placement and projectile path is the most important factors. Organ destruction and hemorrhage are common complications. John knows all this, but the knowledge is not reassuring.

 

John listens to Doctor Collin’s tacit explanation of Mrs. Hudson’s condition. But John’s a doctor himself and reads the subtext. Potential damage to the lung, great vessels and the mediastinum. There is also her age to consider, her body is not as agile, there may be unforeseen complications. Diagnosis is difficult at this stage, but she will return with information as soon as the patient is assessed. If she has any family, John should call them.

 

He sits in the waiting room at Princess Grace Hospital, a cup of disgusting coffee in a paper cup. He tries Sherlock’s cellphone fifteen times before he gives up. He’s called Lestrade too, but the detective inspector isn’t answering and John can only hope it’s because he’s busy helping Sherlock.

 

Just a few hours ago, they´d been wrapped together under the covers in John’s bed. Had Sherlock known then what was coming, was that why he was keeping his distance? What is Moriarty making him do? The questions eats at him until he feels sick.

 

A little after eleven a message ticks in on his phone.

 

*Need you at St.Barts. Immediately. SH*

 

John exhales a sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding. It’s not from a number that John recognizes and when he tries to call it, it goes straight to an automated voicemail. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Sherlock uses somebody else's phone.

 

John rises from his chair, he glances down the corridor towards the ER.

 

His phone pings again.

 

*It is urgent. SH*

 

Oh, who is he kidding- he’ll always come running when Sherlock asks him to.

 

It takes the taxi almost half an hour to reach St. Barts. He’s tried the unknown number, Sherlock’s phone, Lestrade and Mycroft. None of them is answering, and John knows that this kind of silence is a response in itself. An ugly, writhing feeling is blossoming in his chest.

 

Something is happening.

 

His fear comes to life as soon as he steps off the taxi.  Several people are crowded around the bus stop, pointing at something above them. John’s breath catches in his throat, his knee suddenly gives in and he limps towards the crowd, craning his neck to see over their shoulders.

 

There’s two figures on the top of St. Barts. It’s impossible not to recognize Sherlock’s great coat, flapping in the wind as Sherlock balances precariously on the edge, circling the other man as if he’s the prey.

 

John wants to cry, to call out, but the words are too thick to come out. There’s a sudden, sharp, ring and it takes John’s addled mind a second to realize it’s his phone. He glances down at the screen, sees the same, unfamiliar number. He stares at it for a moment, and then another, his fingers trembling as he unlocks the phone.

 

“Turn around and walk back the way you come,” Sherlock’s voice is low and tight.

 

“No, I’m not leaving,”- the ´you´ goes unspoken and John presses his way through the crowd.

 

“Just do as I say, please,” he sounds almost frantic, and John glances up, sees Sherlock standing at the very edge. Behind him, he sees the tall, dark figure of Moriarty. His heart feels like it’s trying to claw it’s way through his chest and he starts running towards the building, cursing his useless limb. If he can just get up there in time-

 

“Just- stop. Stop there, please, “ Sherlock´s voice is surprisingly quiet and it roots John to the spot.

 

“Look up.”

 

It’s a visceral reaction, finding Sherlock’s eyes, even at this distance.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“It has to be done like this.”

 

John’s struggling to draw in enough air and the only sound he manages is a strangled, “oh, God”

 

“It’s the only way.”

 

“No, I’m coming up.”

 

“No,” Sherlock says urgently and John sees him tilt towards the edge, “stay exactly there. Don’t. Move.”

 

John stops, and raises his hand to Sherlock in surrender, “fine, fine I’ll stay.” He sees Sherlock raise his own hand, as in greeting and John hears the rapid, shallow breaths of his friend.

 

“Look at me, John. Keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“I told you, John.”

 

The line goes dead, and high above him John sees Sherlock spread both his arms and then, almost casually, allows himself to fall forward.

 

The scream dies in his throat as and the only sound he hears is the thundering rush of blood in his own ears. And then, something hits him, hard and when he opens his eyes, he sees the blurry outline of a truck blocking his view, and then the worried eyes of a cyclist.

 

“Sorry, about that…”

John lifts hand to his forehead and it comes away, sticky and red with blood. His vision dances in a sickening array of colors, he sees legs, he hears the footstep of people running, the sound of screaming, crying, sees Sherlock lying on his side, a large pool of blood spreading slowly across the pavement. For a moment, he’s not sure where he is and what happened- and then reality hits him with dizzying speed.

 

He struggles to his feet and pushes his way through the throng of people.

 

“Let me, I’m a doctor-”

 

His knees hits the pavement hard enough to bruise. This close the scene penetrate his foggy brain, filling it with  storm of information he doesn't want to comprehend. His mind races  through the details, processe damage, follow emergency procedure. Deep, deep inside him, in the place he keeps everything dark and secret, a terror beats and trashes against his chest.

 

He reaches terrified that his hand will tremble, it doesn't of course. He’s a professional. He touches the pale, cold, skin beneath Sherlock’s jaw, no pulse.

He waits. He begs. He prays.

One second.

Two.

Three.

No pulse.

Four seconds.

Five.

Still no pulse.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

 

No pulse.

 

He drapes himself over Sherlock’s body and weeps into the collar of his jacket, even as he can feel the hands trying to drag him away. But John will not let go, he presses close to the Alpha, trying to transfer some of his heat, some his life- into the slowly cooling body below him.

 

Somebody peels him away, grabs him by the shoulder and hoists him up.

 

“No, Sherlock- I’m his-”

 

John struggles to regain his footing, to fight off the hands trying to steady him, trying to keep him away from Sherlock.

The seconds that follows lasts forever.

 

White clad orderlies lifts Sherlock’s body onto a stretcher and then rapidly wheels it away. The crowd disperses slowly, people still muttering and John finally manages to shake off his helpers. Then, suddenly he’s alone, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the large, red stain on the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don¨t worry and please don´t hate me!
> 
> This is, of course, not permadeath. There are some significant differences between this version and what is canon, and if that was not all clear in this chapter, it will be evident in the next installment. Due to the length and the time jump, I am considering diving this story in two.
> 
> I´d love to hear your thoughts.


	18. Chapter 18.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue of part one.

“It was established by Fairchild et.al (1989) that children of Alpha-Omega parents will always be predispositioned to inherit the majority of Alpha-Omega genetic markers. The Omegas genes are recessive. This is to let the Alpha recognize and thus acknowledge their own offspring. Fairchild held that without these markers the Alphas would likely  abandon their children and their mates and that other Alphas would kill the child to give its own genetic heirs the advantage”  (McTaggert, F., Pregnancy in Alpha-Omega couples. Oxford University Press: 2000).

  
  
  


**Chapter eighteen, epilogue.**

  


They will not let him see the body.

 

He’s grateful, really, for all the things he doesn’t have to see. The white sheet, knowing what is under. The ugly sutures, bruises and scars. Sherlock´s curls cut away to give the examiner a clear view of the head wound.

 

He returns home to their- his now- flat and spends the next few hours staring at the wall. Waiting for news. He keeps his phone in his hand at all times, staring at the screen. Part of him is  still waiting for the phone to ring and for DI Lestrade or Molly to tell him they've made some horrible mistake and that Sherlock is still alive.

 

He sits and watches the light work its way across the wall.

 

The funeral is simple.

 

Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and Mike Stamford.

Sherlock´s tiny circle of acquaintances.

 

Mrs. Hudson is still in intensive care, but she’d insisted on flowers, even if they both agreed that Sherlock would detest all such display of sentiment.

 

Lestrade looks terrible and he knows he doesn't look much better himself, with dark circles under his eyes, his jaw unshaved and a large bandage on his forehead.

 

Mycroft stands at distance, both of his hands clasped on the handle of his umbrella and his face impossible to read.

 

Molly is twisting her hands around each other. Knitting her fingers together until John half worries she´s going to break them. She keeps her gaze firmly fixed on the coffin as it is lowered into the ground. She cannot look at John.

 

Unlike Molly, DI Lestrade seems unable to take his gaze off John, and John feels oddly like Lestrade is judging his performance, as if he´s trying to determine if John´s quiet display of grief is real.

 

It makes John angry and he digs his nails into his palms and doesn’t relax his grip until DI Lestrade leaves.

 

They clasp his hand and pat his shoulder, Molly shuffles past, sniffling into a handkerchief. John is glad there are no offers of apologies, nobody telling him they are sorry. There’s so many things John regrets that he’s not even able to tell them apart from the things he doesn’t.

 

One by one they part. Mycroft is the last to leave.

 

And then it’s only John and the grave. John can’t make his legs work long enough to walk away. He needs to stay here, just  until he’s able to draw a proper breath, until the pain aches instead of twist.

 

He returns to Baker street, though if asked John couldn't tell how. He trudges up the seventeen steps to the flat. He opens the door. He walks inside.

 

He stands in his bedroom, breathes in the warm, stale air that still smells like the two of them, together.

 

He moves like a spectre in his own home. Bedroom. Bathroom. Living room. Kitchen.

 

A small magnet is holding a piece of paper to the fridge. John recognizes the logo from St. Bart’s hospital and he thinks that this may be related to one of Sherlock’s experiments. He slides the paper free from the magnet, studies it.

 

John doesn´t quite understand what he’s seeing. Why would Sherlock have his own blood tested? The reading is normal, except for the high levels of cortisol. He stares at the paper for a long time, until he realizes the room is dark.

 

John sits for a while in his chair, staring at Sherlock’s empty seat across him, the piece of paper still in his hand.

 

He’s determined that he can do this.

 

He can sit here.

 

He waits.

 

He doesn’t know how many days pass or even how they pass, but suddenly he’s hit with the stomach-churning realization that Sherlock is dead. He is dead and he is never coming back.

 

His stomach fills with ice and the cold blossoms through his body, to the tips of his fingertips and it presses against his stomach. Paroxysms of pain contorts his body and his feet move on their own accord and then he’s leaning over the kitchen sink, vomiting bile and weak tea.

 

The pain doesn’t recede. It twists and turns and tugs and he heaves and gasps for air as his stomach clenches and he grabs at the kitchen counter to keep himself upright when his leg gives way.  And he clutches hard, hard at the last pieces of Sherlock that he can feel slipping away.

 

John wakes suddenly and blinks grogginess from his eyes. He is in his own bed, and he doesn't remember how he got there. He twists his head and glances to his left. Somebody has left a glass of water on the nightstand and he uses it to wash away the foul stench of stale vomit from his mouth.

 

He gets up. He showers, brushes his teeth, has a small breakfast, and then, finally, decides to step outside.

 

The wind nips at his skin, and he tugs at the collar of his coat in an attempt to stave off the worst of the chill. He wraps his arms around himself, and can’t stop his feet from moving towards the cemetery.

  


Time passes.

 

He removes the bandage on the wound on his forehead.

 

The wound scabs nicely.

 

It turns pink, then white.

 

It heals.

 

And then it fades.

 


	19. Author's Note.

Thank you for reading this story and supporting me through my very first fanfiction.

It's only part one and if you'd like to read how things work out for John, Sherlock, Glen, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft and all the others, please make your way over to Chromatin. You can find it by visiting this link http://archiveofourown.org/works/3312431/chapters/7237106 or scrolling back to the top and clicking the link that views this story as a series.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fan fiction and I am delighted to (tentatively) join this wonderful community of artists. I hope you all will be kind and supportive and I will appreciate your constructive criticism. 
> 
> I wish you all the best.


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